Constantly
by Darkfangz13
Summary: Mycroft Holmes worries about Sherlock... constantly. Several snapshots of the relationship between Mycroft and Lestrade from stranger, to friend, to... maybe more. The constants of their changing feelings and actions.
1. Wary

Constantly

Wary

It wasn't everyday that Sherlock Holmes acquaintenced himself with anybody. Sure, he'd meet people, upset people, insult people, dazzle them, and completely horrify them. But those were all just strangers, just random people he couldn't help but run across. His current landlord/landlady, his neighbors, a policeman, a random civilan on the street...

Sherlock talked to people and showed off a bit of his brilliant mind, and then he'd walk away. He'd bore of them.

Which was why it was so strange that one Detective Sergeant Gregory Lestrade was honoured with a second visit from the wayward younger brother. Of course, Sherlock had put the intrigue of the case first and Mycroft doubted he even realized he had come across the sergeant before.

But Lestrade remembered that particular homeless junkie that spectacularly tore apart his crime scene. He rolled his eyes and locked Sherlock up in the back of his police vehicle while he stood outside with a smoke.

"Hey! Let me out!" Mycroft watched his younger brother shout from the CCTV footage. "You're not listening to me! The murderer was the gardener!"

"Yeah, yeah. I'm sure you're right." Surprisingly enough, the sergeant's tone wasn't sarcastic, or even angry. He just seemed, annoyed? Curious? "You were right about the other time too." Mycroft blinked in surprise at the man's frank honesty. "The one where you set fire to a flat."

"Oh, you'll have to be a bit more specific than that." Sherlock groaned, collapsing onto his side on the car seat, having exhausted himself in trying to get out.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "The one where you smoked out the not-really-dead victim?" he reminded.

"Oh, that one... Oh!" Sherlock sat up suddenly. "You're the sergeant from that case! Ugh, what's the name?" He snapped his fingers a few times in frustration before giving up. "I'm sure I've got your police ID somewhere..."

Lestrade looked a fair bit peeved at that. "Uh, huh. DS Lestrade." he informed the disorientated junkie stiffly.

"Right. Well, I had good reason to light that fire." Sherlock shrugged innocently.

"Health and Safety would have a field day with you." Lestrade muttered back.

There was silence for a while. "But you are going to follow up on my leads?" Sherlock asked almost tentatively.

For a few minutes, Lestrade didn't answer. Finally, he flicked his cigarette and stubbed it with the toe of his shoe. "Why not?" he sighed in a resigned manner that spoke in inner turmoil and the concluding diagnosis that he was insane to believe the junkie and would regret it sometime or another in the near future. Sherlock stared. "What?" Lestrade asked gruffly when he became uncomfortable with the staring.

"Most would call you mad."

Lestrade shrugged. "They probably wouldn't really care as long as it helps catch these killers."

"How wonderfully naive." Sherlock scoffed.

"Whatever."

They stayed still like that for another minute. "So, what? You're just going to stand there all day and let me rot in here?" Sherlock demanded impatiently once the waiting had become too much for him. "Obviously, you're not needed here anymore."

Lestrade shrugged. "Sure, I'm going to bring you back down to the station in just a moment."

"Is there a particular reason why you're procrastinating?"

Lestrade nodded. "Yeah. I know that there's going to be a message from some real higher-up politician sod demanding your release, waiting for me on my desk, like last time. But, of course, there's no way I'm turning you out in the state you are now. You'd get yourself killed, or worse, you might get someone else killed. And, I've really got no obligation to let you go until I read that document and... obviously, I haven't." He shot Sherlock a grin. "Make yourself comfortable, Mister Sherlock Holmes, you might be here for a long time."

Sherlock blinked in confusion. "You know my name."

Lestrade shrugged. "Yeah, well, I was trying to track you down after that first case. Got your name and some real fucked-up, blacked-out criminal record in the system. What's up with that, then?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and leaned back into his seat. "Oh, that's probably Mycroft's doing." he groaned, rubbing his sallow eyes.

Lestrade shot him a concerned look. "There's a bottle of water and a few pain-killers in the back there." he told Sherlock.

Sherlock shot him a dirty look, but fumbled for the pain-killers anyway. "You know, Mycroft probably already knows what you're doing and is sending his PA to personally request that you release me." he prophesied.

Just five minutes too late, Mycroft thought with a frown. The intoxcants obviously didn't help his younger brother's brain any.

Lestrade was silent, contemplating Sherlock's words. "Right, maybe we should start driving down to the station then?" he murmured at length.

"Oh, throwing in the towel already?" Sherlock taunted. "I had hoped you'd show a little more resistance."

Lestrade just smirked as he slid into the driver's seat. "Don't gloat just yet Mister Holmes, I might get lost in the traffic on the way back, there's no telling where we might turn up."

Mycroft just raised his eyebrows at the live video footage and wondered if this DS Lestrade would be a good influence on Sherlock, or a bad one.

"Anthea," he spoke into his phone. "have surveilance set up on Detective Sergeant Gregory Lestrade." Just in case Sherlock and he met again.

Three hours of driving, an hour and a half in a cell down at the Yard, a good chewing out from a Superintendant, and a whole fifteen minutes of procrastination later and Sherlock was finally released from police custody.

And somehow - after all that - Sherlock decided that Gregory Lestrade was at least a little more tolerable than all the other officers.

Mycroft was cursing the man's bulldog tenacity.

Lestrade was just savoring the look of veiled approval his DI sent him. One thing they had in common was the satisfaction of getting up a deserving higher-up's nose.

And Lestrade believed that this particular one certainly did deserve it.

That night, in a humble but secure flat somewhere in London, Mycroft read through DS Gregory Lestrade's file. Of all the detectives of the Yard, why would Sherlock choose to acquaintence himself with_ this_ man?

For the life of him, Mycroft Holmes could not fathom.

Something about DS Gregory Lestrade's overall existance bothered him and unsettled him thoroughly. The British Government entwined his fingers and frowned.


	2. Annoyed

Annoyed

It annoyed Mycroft, truth be told. The constant niggling in the back of his consciousness be it while he sat in conference with some of the most powerful men in the world, or lay in bed staring sleeplessly up at the ceiling.

What was so special about Gregory Lestrade that had warrented Sherlock's tolerance?

Did Sherlock deduce something in him that could not have been seen by the CCTV cameras? Maybe it was because he thought Lestrade was one of those coppers who would turn a blind eye to his... addictions. But that couldn't be it. Lestrade was the most efficient, if not, quietly passionate officer of his rank on the field. He wouldn't ignore a problem case like Sherlock. Maybe Sherlock stuck with him because he thought he'd be easy to wear in?

So many questions for a man that Sherlock only met four, or five, times.

Strange, because Mycroft never worried much about the people Sherlock chose to surround himself with mostly because Sherlock made it a point not to and because everyone who knew him all wisely kept their distances and had clean records.

Only, he was not so sure about Gregory Lestrade.

As a natural prankster and troublemaker in his teenage years, Lestrade was known to break a few minor laws but was never arrested for one reason or another. Mycroft found this odd as the local officers stationed in the area of his childhood home knew him during that age. They didn't have much good to say about him, but neither bad things.

And, more importantly, none of them offered any explanation as to why Lestrade always got off the hook.

Mycroft rolled his eyes with a slightly reprimanding grumble of 'Let it go, Mycroft.' Really, who was Gregory Lestrade to disturb his peaceful afternoon? Mycroft sat back in his Diogenes club and resolved to think of the copper no more.

Three hours later, he was cursing his own paranoia as Anthea entered the room with Gregory Lestrade's file and a full report on a case Lestrade and Sherlock worked on just that morning.

Sherlock saw something in the man. Mycroft was intent on finding out what that was.

* * *

"Mycroft!" Sherlock's baritone voice sliced out of the silence with a painfully feigned warmth.

"Brother." Mycroft inclined his head, pressing his lips together.

Sherlock saw the look and groaned, rolling his eyes. "Oh, Hell! What is it now?"

The younger sibling's torso was draped over the sofa's back but his gangly legs hung off into open space. His head was lolling slightly and his eyes were half-lidded. Obviously, Sherlock was in no condition to have a serious conversation with Mycroft.

Mycroft just rolled his eyes Heavenward and sighed sadly. "A brilliant mind like yours, Sherlock." he reprimanded. "A slave to intoxicants. How tragic."

Sherlock merely made a rude gesture in reply.

"Yes, Sherlock, pleasent seeing you again, too."

Neither Holmes moved very much after that. Mycroft glided about, silent as a ghost, and made them both tea since Sherlock was in no state to accomplish anything.

Half-an-hour later, Sherlock suddenly sat up. "Where's Lestrade?"

Mycroft perked up mentally at that, though bodily, not a muscle moved. "Lestrade?"

"Oh, don't act like you don't know who he is!" Sherlock spat. "Where is he? Did you kidnap him? It's obvious you didn't come here to ask me to help you on a case, what else would you come for?"

Just then, there were footsteps in the hall outside the flat, and they were coming nearer. Gregory Lestrade, come to meddle in Sherlock's business? Or was it for another case?

Mycroft bit his lip a little. Then he stood. "Well, I'll return as soon as you're ready to form coherent words." He frowned at the pale hand that flapped at him languidly, shooing him off.

He gripped his umbrella and walked out of the door, passing Lestrade in the hall.

Lestrade was frowning grumpily and muttering under his breath as he made his way to Sherlock's flat. He was taller than he looked in the CCTV footages but Mycroft chalked that up to his slouch, Sherlock's superior height and his ability to make a man feel two feet tall when with him. The air, as the copper swept past him, smelled of musk cologne, cigaratte smoke, bitter coffee, ... and a faint tinge of fresh soap. How mundane.

Then, as if just realizing that Mycroft had just come out of the very same flat he was about to enter, Lestrade's posture stiffened and he threw a glance at Mycroft's retreating back. Mycroft felt his curious gaze on his back and the hairs on the back of his neck raised but he continued walking.

Then, Lestrade shrugged and rapped twice on Sherlock's door before entering without waiting to be invited in. Because, knowing Sherlock, he wouldn't. Then there was a growl. "Sherlock bloody Holmes!" Mycroft could hear Lestrade mutter and could almost imagine his jaw tightening, sighing at the genius on the sofa. "What have I told you about our agreement?"

Mycroft stopped short in his steps. What kind of agreement? Then he continued walking, he knew that everything they said was to be picked up by his microphones and recorded. He'd listen to it later.

"I can't consult you on my cases if you keep-..." Lestrade gestured at Sherlock's state. "Come on, Sherlock. Work with me here."

Sherlock's eyes were lidded serenely but one of his eyebrows raised. "It helps me think, and in turn, I help you. I think it's a reasonable enough working relation, isn't it?"

"No, Sherlock, it's not!" Lestrade spat back, Sherlock ignored him. Then he saw the tea on the coffee table. "Had a client, did you?"

Sherlock snorted in amusement. "A client...? Lestrade, don't be ridiculous."

Lestrade sighed in exasperation. "Alright, get up." He took Sherlock by the arm and lugged him unsteadily to his feet. "Get up. Stand on your own, can you?"

Sherlock's eyes finally opened although it was only to scowl at the sergeant and bat him away. "Leave me alone, Lestrade." He collapsed bonelessly on the sofa again.

Lestrade just stood staring at him for a while impassively. Then he disappeared into the kitchen and reappeared with a metal cooking bowl full of cold water. He lifted it over Sherlock's head and dumped the contents all over him.

"Lestrade! What the Hell-...!" Sherlock spluttered indignantly.

"That's my line, Sherlock!" Lestrade shouted back angrily. "You said you'd stop! You-..." he bit his tongue to keep obsceneties from flying off it. "Come on, Sherlock. At least sleep in your own bed." He moved to help Sherlock again.

Sherlock slapped his hand away with a childish, "Leave it alone."

"You know I can't." Lestrade picked up an empty syringe and stared at it blankly. "This stuff is going to kill you, you know."

"Oh, and I suppose those who don't do drugs will live forever!" Sherlock snapped back snidely. "What do you care?"

"Sherlock," Lestrade sighed, putting the syringe back down and crossing his arms. "I think you've probably figured this out already, but you're too smart to become a statistic."

There was silence. "You were in the narcotics division before being transferred to homicide." Sherlock deduced.

"We lost good undercover people through drug abuse, Sherlock." Lestrade frowned.

"I'm not one of 'yours'."

"Do I have to have a reason why I don't want to turn a blind eye to you killing yourself?"

They squared off, neither backing down.

"Fine."

Sherlock's murmur was hardly loud enough to be heard, but Lestrade heard it anyway.

"Come on, Sherlock. Let's get you cleaned up. Then I'm going to force food and liquids down your throat." Sherlock made to protest but Lestrade stopped him. "Sure, it interferes with your brainwork, or whatever, but I'm pretty certain you're still smart enough to figure this case out. You know, stupid killers and all that."

"There's no advantage to eating."

"Nourishment, rest, and rehab. Or I'm going to withold cases." Sherlock glared, but Lestrade just smiled back cheekily. "Your choice, Sherlock."

* * *

Mycroft frowned. Well, it was more of a pout, but Mycroft Holmes never pouted so it would most likely be reported as a 'grim frown'. Half-an-hour. Thirty minutes. A thousand eight hundred seconds. Whichever suited best. Within a space of such a short time, Gregory Lestrade succeeded in changing Sherlock in a way that Mycroft had been failing to for the last five years. God, but this was embarassing. He felt like a father who's precious child favored a stranger over him but said stranger didn't even know it.

What was Lestrade's secret? Maybe Sherlock hated Mycroft just that much.

He watched the surveilance footages in Sherlock's bedroom as Sherlock and Lestrade went over the details of a particularly gruesome murder. Sherlock was lying flat on his stomache on the bed, eyes closed and almost drifting off to sleep. Lestrade was sitting in a chair he had dragged up to the bedside and was reading out the autopsy report to the consulting detective.

Suddenly, Sherlock chuckled, interrupting Lestrade's discription of the murder weapon. "Oh, Mycroft's going to be pissed at you." he murmured.

Lestrade lowered the file onto his lap. "Who?"

"Mycroft."

"... Okay, who is this 'Mycroft' and why is he going to be pissed at me? Should I be worried?"

"Yes, you should be worried. Mycroft is the most dangerous man you've never met, and you've just one-upped him spectacularly."

Lestrade just shook his head dismissively. "Whatever, Sherlock." And he continued reading out the report.

Mycroft pursed his lips and tapped the tip of his umbrella on the floor. Maybe it was time he acquaintenced himself with Gregory Lestrade and did away with his petty worries about the man's motives and relation with Sherlock.

He picked up his phone. "Anthea, prepare secure meeting grounds, please."


	3. Threatening

Threatening

It would be cliche to say that it was an extraordinarily ordinary day when Gregory Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes first shared words - but it was. It seemed like the whole criminal class - plus one consulting detective - simply took a holiday and left Lestrade with nothing but mountainous piles of paperwork. In a way, he thought he should be pleased by it. Unfortunately, his instincts told him that this was simply the calm before the storm.

And his instincts were right.

Lestrade huddled into his overcoat with a shiver as he made his way home from the Yard. The street light he was attempting to cross promptly blinked and turned red upon his approach. He rolled his eyes and sighed in exasperation, stopping on the curb to wait it out. A minute or two passed and Lestrade glanced up at the light.

Still red.

"The Hell...?" Lestrade drew his gaze across the street to the crossroad light opposite. Red. Both ways. In fact, all the street lights for several blocks around seemed on a permanent red.

Lestrade felt a sense of forboding as he noticed several pedestrians begin pointing and wondering at the phenomenon. A car honked its horn and a driver nearby shouted in reply. What the Hell was going on? He turned and began walking down the street, whipping out his phone.

He dialled an officer in the Met's CCTV control room. _"Hey, what's happening out there, eh?" _the officer on watch questioned with a nervous chuckle before Lestrade could ask him the same.

"No idea." Lestrade murmured, glancing up at a CCTV camera he passed on the street. "How far is this going for?"

_"Only a few blocks-... hold on, wait a sec. The lights seem to be operating alright now." _Lestrade could hear a keyboard clack away in the background noise. _"Oh... what the bloody...? The damage seems to be moving down the street, like."_

Lestrade snorted. "I don't even know what that means."

_"It's following you."_

Well if that wasn't a cheesy line out of some low-budget horror movie...

Lestrade stopped. "What?" Voiced disbelievingly.

_"Red. Lights. Are. Following. You." _the officer repeated with a strained giggle, probably thinking he was going mad._ "Try walking back to where you came from."_

"Oh, for..." Lestrade threw his hands up and rolled his eyes. "This is ridiculous."

He turned around and walked back.

_"Yep, looks like you've got a problem, mate."_

"Tell me something I don't know." Lestrade grumbled. He got the message - already - whoever was sending it... in case they cared. _Stop. _The wisest thing to do was to obey, but, in light of the situation, it was the last thing he wanted. He stopped on the sidewalk, nonetheless.

Then there was a yelp. _"Wait...! What...?"_

"What's happened now?" Lestrade asked, worried.

_"The CCTV cameras are starting to malfunction. They're turning in all the wrong ways!"_

Lestrade looked up. And sure enough, the street cameras were all simultaneously turning _away_ from him._ "Sir, I don't mean to sound paranoid, or worried. But I think you should really run... you know, just in case." _the officer advised.

Of course, Lestrade didn't have to be told, his guards were up and his nerves jumping. There was a faint flicker of light to his left and he whirled around.

There was a dusty TV screen inside a closed electronics store window... and it was on. Which was strange since the store closed down about three years ago and Lestrade was pretty sure the TV shouldn't be plugged in, much less that it would have power. And what was that he was saying about horror movies?

The text on-screen was bold and easy to read, despite the layer of dust covering it.

_Please get in the car, Detective Sergeant Gregory Lestrade._

Lestrade blinked because really, the TV screen was talking to him, the road signals were all red, the CCTV was malfunctioning with a strange deliberacy. He pinched himself just to make sure he wasn't dreaming or anything.

But it hurt.

Goddammit.

Suddenly, the light just ahead of him turned green and the traffic surged again. Everything except the CCTV went back to normal in a matter of minutes. Lestrade was half-inclined to just walk away but was stopped by a black car pulling up on the street next to him. The back passenger door opened for him and there was a woman seated inside.

Lestrade glanced back to the TV in the window. _Please get in the car, Detective Sergeant Gregory Lestrade._ The woman seemed to be waiting expectantly for him to move although her eyes never left her blackberry.

He sighed in resignation and slipped silently into the car. The vehicle hummed smoothly and pulled off the curb and into the late-night traffic.

"So..." Lestrade prompted awkwardly. "Any chance you might tell me what's going on and where we're going?"

The brunette peered at him over the top of her blackbery impassively for a moment before resuming typing away silently. Obviously, there was no chance of her ruining the surprise.

"Okay..."

* * *

Mycroft was standing, legs crossed at the ankles and leaning on his umbrella when the car housing DI Lestrade pulled up inside the warehouse. The doors were open and a smog was drifting inside, casting an eerie feel of the place.

Not a single bulb was lit inside the warehouse and they all moved in inky darkness save the weak beams of light from the car's head lamps. Mycroft, who's eyes were more accustomed to the dark, saw Lestrade dismount the car and lean down to converse with Anthea for a few moments, probably asking what he was supposed to be doing here.

Then he straightened, turned in Mycroft's general direction, and began walking.

"Good evening, Detective Sergeant Gregory Lestrade." Mycroft greeted when Lestrade was close enough to speak to without having to raise his voice. But he was still a good distance away with about five meters between them.

Lestrade stopped in his tracks. "Hello?"

Now that Lestrade had stopped, it was Mycroft's turn to lessen the distance. He walked with slow, deliberate steps that many people found intimidating. Even more so if one couldn't yet see the owner of said steps.

"Who are you? And what do you want from me?" Lestrade asked, shoving his hands in his pockets, feet planted firmly apart in a no-nonsense kind of manner. He seemed almost itching to whip out his police-issued notebook.

"Who I am is of no concern-..." Mycroft was promptly cut off.

"The Hell it isn't." Lestrade snapped, clearly impatient to get right down to business.

Mycroft grimaced in the darkness, full aware of the fact that Lestrade couldn't yet make out his features. "I am a... concerned party, you could say."

"Concerned about-...?"

Mycroft near scowled. Why couldn't people just finish their sentences properly sometimes? He carried on. "I see you've acquaintenced yourself with one... Sherlock Holmes." He waited for a reaction.

"Oh, no... Christ, what has he gotten himself into now?" Lestrade groaned, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

"Do not worry yourself, Sergeant. For once, Sherlock has done nothing wrong to enforce a meeting like this." Although, that didn't make Lestrade any less cautious.

"What do you want?" Lestrade questioned.

"You tell me." Mycroft threw back. "I'm sure an intelligent man like yourself would know better than to work with Sherlock on a regular basis. And yet you are."

Lestrade's chin jerked up a fraction of an inch, defiant. "I don't see how that's any of your business."

"Oh, but it is." Mycroft droned with his plummy voice. "You see, Detective Sergeant, I worry about him... _constantly_."

Silence.

"Well, if you're so worried about him, why haven't I met you before now?" Lestrade asked angrily. "If you were so concerned about him, you'd know about the things he gets himself into!"

"I do, in fact." Mycroft responded, rubbing his thumb over the smooth handle of his umbrella, a bad habit of his. "But you know how Sherlock is. He won't accept help from me."

"You can control the road signals, the CCTV, and a broken down old TV inside a closed shop... but you can't get Sherlock to listen to you?" Lestrade asked dubiously. "Bullshit."

Mycroft inclined his head with a reprimanding look. By that time, Lestrade's eyes had accustomed to the darkness enough to make it out. Yet, the expression did nothing to make him regret his wordings. "We have what you might call a... difficult relationship."

Which - concerning Sherlock - could mean so many things.

A look of realization came over Lestrade's features. "Oh, no... you work for this 'Mycroft' fellow, don't you?" He looked around at the darkened warehouse. "The signals, the cameras, the TV, the car, the warehouse... I was beginning to wonder why a little voice in the back of my head - sounding vaguely like Sherlock - was groaning 'This has Mycroft written all over it'."

"Unfortunately, I do not work for Mycroft Holmes." Mycroft replied honestly. Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "I am Mycroft Holmes." He stepped into the light of the car's head lamps.

Lestrade recognized him. "Oh..."

Mycroft nodded. "Sherlock loathes anyone with a higher power than him - as I have - how smooth do you think our relation is?" His tone was slightly mocking.

Lestrade held up his hands, stopping Mycroft from continuing. "Right, alright! I get it! You're someone really important, you're worried about Sherlock, and you've got a bloody power complex. What the Hell do you want with me?"

Mycroft's gaze sharpened on him. "I would like you to discontinue your association with Sherlock Holmes, Sergeant." he stated imperiously. "For both your sakes." They were both silent, waiting for Lestrade to finish contemplating the request. "I can offer you a great sum, Sergeant Lestrade, a little something to fix up that horrid leak in your ceiling." He said as he pulled out a little black book from his pocket and flipped through it.

Lestrade's head jumped up. "How the Hell do you know I have a leak in my ceiling?"

Mycroft merely smirked at him.

"And perhaps a short vacation for you and your estranged wife. It's about time you gave her a little attention, don't you think?" Mycroft 'tsk'ed at him thoughtfully.

"Who the Hell are you, Mister Holmes?" Lestrade hissed angrily.

Mycroft slid his black book into his inner breast pocket and leaned on his umbrella. "You did not answer my question, Sergeant Lestrade."

Lestrade's jaw tightened. "No."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "No?"

"_No_. Let me guess, you get off on it, do you? Playing God?" Lestrade smirked suddenly. "That whole power complex of yours. Well let me tell you this, Mister Holmes; you can't make me do whatever you want me to do. You can't push me around. And I won't be bought, understand?"

"I can have you fired with a single phonecall, Detective Sergeant." Mycroft smiled back threateningly.

"Do your worst, Mister Holmes." Lestrade lifted an eyebrow challengingly. "But you can't control me, though I'd like to see you try." He took a few steps forward and stuck out his hand. "I believe this meeting is over."

Mycroft pressed his lips together and took the extended hand. There was a tiny shake, more of a slight tremor before both men retracted their hands. Then Lestrade turned and walked away.

Now Mycroft understood why Sherlock liked that man so. He was just the kind of person who tended to rub Mycroft the wrong way, no matter what he did.

* * *

The next day, Lestrade was put on a forced leave, one that would soon become permanent very quietly. Mycroft smiled with a grim satisfaction. Nobody defied Mycroft Holmes like that and expected to remain unscathed.

He visited Sherlock's flat only to see that he was not there. He had slipped past Mycroft's surveilance again. His phone rang. "Hello?"

"Mister Holmes." It was Anthea. "It's your brother Sherlock. Somehow he's infiltrated Thames House and MI5 have got him in a holding cell awaiting further orders."

Mycroft cursed. "I'll be right there."

* * *

"I cannot say how very sorry I am about my brother." Sherlock heard Mycroft say grimly as footsteps approached the locked door across the room from him. The door opened and Mycroft appeared. "Sherlock, get up. I believe you've caused enough trouble here."

Sherlock sighed and pushed past Mycroft with a slight smile. They walked out of the building in silence before Mycroft turned to him sharply. "Sherlock..."

"What, Mycroft?"

Mycroft sighed, rolling his eyes. No amount of scolding and punishments would ever teach Sherlock. "How did you even get in? My identification card _and_ code changes every week." And Mycroft knew that he hadn't passed by Sherlock in that time.

"Lestrade had a free moment today. He's on leave, did you hear? Seemed a bit peeved about it. He dropped the card off and I deduced the code." Sherlock smirked triumphantly.

Mycroft went slack-jawed and for the first time in years, he was at a loss for words.

"He's an idiot, but he's a damned annoying one, isn't he, Mycroft?" Sherlock smiled with a chuckle. "He was right, though, the cell _was_ worth seeing your expression."

As one of Mycroft's drivers took Sherlock back to his flat, Mycroft was seated in the back of his own car with Anthea. He typed a message into his phone. _Childish, Detective Sergeant. -MH_

_I assume that means I've still got my job? -Lestrade_

_Only for the while. -MH_

_And if you try that again, I'll ensure that you never get Sherlock's help another one of those cases of yours. Sherlock's willing to help carry out my threats. -Lestrade_

_Breaking into Thames House is a crime. -MH_

_Well, I didn't break into Thames House, did I? Sherlock did. -Lestrade_

_Pick-pocketing Mycroft Holmes is an even more serious crime. -MH_

_Haha. You're kidding! Mycroft Holmes? Pick-pocketed by a lowly copper? -Lestrade_

_I see you intend to feign innocence. -MH_

_I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about. -Lestrade_

_P.S. Thanks for the day off. The Missus was very happy about it. -Lestrade._

_You are impossible. -MH_

_I'll take that as a compliment. -Lestrade_

Mycroft slid his phone into his pocket and looked at Anthea. "I'm afraid I've gravely underestimated Gregory Lestrade." he grumbled. "He'll be a hard one to keep in line."

Anthea raised her eyebrows but didn't look away from her phone. "What do you suggest?"

Mycroft entwined his fingers on his umbrella handle. "Every man has something they wish to hide." he mused. "Something that makes him... _suitably threatened_."

Anthea finally looked at her boss. In that moment, she did not envy Detective Sergeant Gregory Lestrade at all.


	4. Cold

A/N: In the previous chapter, Mycroft addresses Lestrade multiple times as 'Detective Inspector', my fault entirely. I am seriously too used to calling him 'Inspector' that I forgot he was supposed to be a sergeant. Well, I've fixed the mistake and Lestrade is once again sergeant. Just for the people who might be confused. Sorry about that!

Anyway, enjoy.

* * *

Cold

_Snow._ When one thinks about snow, you could imagine sitting by a warm fireplace on a Christmas night and watching white powder accumulate on the frosted window sill, or acres of pure white stretching across a field, glistening in the sunlight.

But when Lestrade thinks about snow, he thinks about grey slush in a back alley, or a particularly icy patch of sidewalk when pursuing a suspect, and maybe even a corpse in a drift, forensic evidence almost purely intact.

But this time, he was stood knee-deep in a recently shoveled mountain of snow and for once he is grateful for the crime scene coveralls. At least he wouldn't get too wet... was still bloody cold, though.

The body was discovered in the early morning by a man scraping snow off the sidewalk in order to move his car. According to his statement, he had been throwing snow over his shoulder for a good seven minutes, or so, before seeing a bare foot poking out from under the white.

The forensics worked quickly to photograph the area around the dumpsite for potential footprints, although since it was snowing all through the night, the chances of catching the killer's footprint were nil.

Next was the body. Snow was scraped off the rest of the body to be examined by the ME before being lifted into the awaiting van to be taken down to the morgue. The woman's limbs were delicately outstretched like the victim had been in the process of making a snow angel when the unfortunate happened. As the body was taken away, Lestrade briefly wondered if the stiffness of the corpse was due to rigor mortis, or if the body itself was completely frozen.

There was a smattering of red ice under where the body was found and Lestrade motioned for the forensics to take over. He hopped out of the snow drift and stomped his feet a little to keep the blood flowing and rubbed his hands together.

Body-... check. Crime scene-... check. Witnesses-... check. Now, all that's missing is a warm cup of coffee and a little sun.

He peered up at the sky through his eyelashes. Still pretty dark. Lestrade had wondered why the witness was out shoveling snow so early in the day. Figures that he was a lawyer and always left for work obscenely early.

"Lestrade!" Lestrade's DI - an elderly man named Keith Meadows - called out to him. "Go see what the commotion out there's about, will you lad?"

Lestrade turned to see Constable Sally Donovan exchanging heated words with a very calm woman who seemed intent to stay right where she was despite Donovan's incessant request that she leave.

The woman seemed to ignore Donovan as she stared at her blackberry. Lestrade couldn't repress a groan. He walked over. "What seems to be the problem here?"

"Sorry, Sir. I tried to get her to leave." Donovan sighed in exasperation.

"That's alright-... Donovan, wasn't it?" The PC nodded. "Right, well, don't worry about it, I'll take care of this." Donovan nodded again stiffly and marched away.

"Mister Holmes wishes to see you." The mysterious blackberry toting woman told him curtly. "Please follow me." She turned on her heel and swiftly walked away.

Desperately wishing he could ignore her retreating figure, but knowing no better alternative, he followed. At a distance. Just because.

He was led to a nearby cafe that shouldn't be open for another hour or so and was let inside. The professional-looking barista at the counter eyed him warily as he passed, but said nothing. Lestrade was guided to a table near the back of the small cafe where Mycroft himself was seated, flipping nonchalantly through a newspaper that really couldn't have been delivered yet. Because it was _tomorrow's_ paper, the showoff.

"Bloody wanker." Lestrade grumbled under his breath.

"Ah, Sergeant." Mycroft greeted, glancing up at him and smiling coolly. "Take a seat." He pointed at the empty chair opposite with his umbrella.

"I'm alright over here, thanks." Lestrade responded equally as calmly, continuing to stand.

"I'd rather you sit, Detective."

"And I'd rather I stood."

They stared each other down, both desperatly wanting to glare at the other - but didn't - for civility's sake. Although, neither really saw a point to being civil when the last time they met, Mycroft had Lestrade nearly fired, and Lestrade pick-pocketed him. "What do you want now?" Lestrade asked finally.

"I see you've taken on the Willow case." Mycroft remarked.

"The what?"

"Your victim."

"We don't even have an ID."

A manila file was produced and tossed onto the table. Mycroft raised an eyebrow and nodded for Lestrade to take it. Lestrade stayed motionless for a moment before finally rolling his eyes with a sigh, his shoulders sagging. He walked over and picked the file up to flip through it. Sure enough, the face in the photo matched the victim's.

"What is this about?" Lestrade asked suspiciously.

"It's a lost cause, Sergeant." Mycroft told him. "You'll never solve this case and I suggest you don't waste your time on it. It will soon be transferred to more... _appropriate_ authorities."

Lestrade snorted. "So, what? I'm to round up the team and tell them to drop the case because the great Mycroft Holmes says to?" He shook his head. "You're mad."

"I never said to drop the case." Mycroft sniffed condescendingly. "I merely said not to waste time on it. You're welcome to try your hand at it, though. It's your choice." _I'd like to see you try... and fail._ Went unsaid.

"Well, if this is all you've called me out for..." Lestrade said, knowing all too well how much not finishing his sentences annoyed Mycroft.

"Also, I've been thinking, Sergeant Lestrade, about your actions concerning Sherlock." Mycroft declared after a prolonged sip of tea. Tea in a coffee shop, only Mycroft bloody Holmes...

"Right. That's nice, can we skip the chit-chat? I've got a crime scene to be at." Lestrade sighed, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

"Sherlock seems to be easing himself slowly off the intoxicants." Mycroft carried on.

"As long as he's distracted, he's going to be alright." Lestrade nodded.

"That's good. Keep him distracted." Mycroft hummed slowly.

Lestrade seemed at the end of his patience. "What do you want, Mister Holmes? Really, what? I haven't the time for tea and small-talk, you know!"

"The moment I let him out of my sights, he's going to get himself into trouble." Mycroft ignored Lestrade's impatient exclamations.

"This is ridiculous, I'm leaving." Lestrade shook his head with an exasperated sigh and turned to leave.

"All I am asking," Mycroft's voice pursued him, cool, unhurried. "is that you make sure Sherlock doesn't accidentally kill himself in my absence."

A cold wind rushed through the open door and penetrated Lestrade's overcoat, causing him to shiver. He stopped, shook his head with a small sigh, and turned back. "'Accidentally kill himself'?"

"When the cat is away..." Mycroft shook his head grimly. "How do you think Sherlock's past attempts at rehabilitation worked out? He takes drugs the moment those keeping an eye on him glance away. He always cheats because he knows how to mask the evidence of his deception. He never could attempt that around me, he knows I'll only find him out."

A chill settled in Lestrade's spine when the thought of that. Grotesque images of OD'd drug addicts he'd seen in his time with the narcotics division filled his brain. Sherlock wouldn't... he promised not to, didn't he? "Well, if you're so worried about him, _you_ look after him! He _is_, afterall, your brother." At Mycroft's silence he shook those thoughts away and another thought occured to him. "'In your absence'. Where are you going, Mister Holmes?"

Mycroft's ice-blue eyes blinked, momentarily hiding them from view. "That, I cannot say."

Lestrade's jaw tightened as his stomache dropped. He had that feeling he sometimes got when he just knew a case wasn't going to end well. Realizing he had no idea what to say, Lestrade just nodded curtly and turned to leave again.

He stopped just inside the doorway, watching snowflakes fall in light clusters. He sensed movement behind him and Mycroft was suddenly there behind his left shoulder. The umbrella that was hooked on his arm was now raised and opened with a snap.

"I do sincerely hope you and Sherlock behave yourselves." Mycroft quipped condenscendingly as he made ready to leave.

"I misbehave by Sherlock's rules, only with people who annoy me." Lestrade snapped back, eyebrows quirking.

Side-by-side, they walked out into the snow. One under an umbrella, the other, not. Mycroft moved toward his idling car and Lestrade toward the crime scene. Mycroft neared his vehicle when he turned back.

"Look after him, Sergeant." Lestrade stopped and turned back. The only thing colder than this miserable morning was the tone of Mycroft's voice. Lestrade could almost hear the 'Or else...' hanging above his head.

"I can't promise anything, but I'll see what I can do." He said quietly and turned around again to continue walking. "I hope wherever you're going is worth it!" he threw back over his shoulder with a slightly accusatory tone.

Now _that_ was a low blow, but it landed hard nontheless.

Mycroft merely scowled at Lestrade's retreating back and entered his car.

Lestrade returned to the crime scene and stared at the splotch of red that still showed against the pure white and for a moment wondered who the victim was, what had she gotten herself into? And, more importantly, how did Mycroft Holmes know who she was? If he knew she was there before the witness found her, why had he not called in the authorities? If he had known about the case after the police arrived, how had he known who the victim was? She was buried under the snow...

As much as he didn't want to think about the possibility that Mycroft himself was responsible for putting the body there, he couldn't exactly ignore it either. He glanced down the street just as a black car pulled away, tail lights glistening, bouncing rays of red light on the snow like little droplets of blood.

They did not see each other again for two months.


	5. Watching

Watching

There was that silver car five cars behind him... again. The same one. Seen briefly in peripherals at least three times in the last week alone. Strangely enough, Lestrade never could get a number plate or see what the people inside the car looked like. All he could see were faint outlines of a team of two. Silhouetted short-cropped hair and wide shoulders, so, both presumably male?

He pulled into the Yard's parking lot and got out just in time to see the silver vehicle sail past on the street followed quickly by a red mini cooper, number plate still effectively hidden. He idled on the curb lighting up a cigarette until he saw the car turn off the street, then he finished his smoke and practically ran into DI Meadows's office.

He pulled the blinds, both the ones overlooking the street and the ones looking out into the bullpen. Didn't exactly want Donovan, or anybody else, to see him and think he'd gone mad. He scavenged in his own desk drawer outside the office and pulled out a video camera, one that had taped a recent killer's interrogation and confession. He ejected the tape with the confession and replaced it with a blank casset before setting it up on a tripod, lens poking out subtly from between the blinds of Meadow's office.

He angled the camera to effectively tape the street outside and tried to ignore it as he set about his work for the day.

Of course, it gained its fair bit of attention. Donovan had asked about the strange camera by the window when bringing in a suspect's criminal records, Anderson had remarked about the closed blinds before asking about the camera, and DI Meadows just raised his eyebrows, opening his mouth before Lestrade held up a restraining hand and begged him not to ask.

When work finished that night, Lestrade stayed a few more hours to observe the tape. The silver car had been parked outside with an okay view of his desk for three of the five hours he was at it. He had no doubt that they might've followed him while he was out at a crime scene and talking to suspects.

But he had a number plate now. No mini coopers to cover your plates now, bastards.

Lestrade typed the number into the system and waited for feedback. He knew it might take a while. It wasn't like the New Scotland Yard used relics of computers, there were just too many cars and number plates in the system, identified, or unidentified.

He decided to move his muscles a little. Stretch, walk around, get a cup of coffee, and then he'd check up on his progress.

Ten minutes later, his computer completed its search. Lestrade sighed and pressed his forehead to his desk. Number not found.

Alright, he pulled out his notebook. Time to get a little old-fashioned detective work done. What information did he have on his mysterious watchers? Lestrade pursed his lips.

Silver vehicle, number plate non-existant in the system, surveilance team of two, first spotted at least half-a-month ago, not Internal Affairs Division - they'd use a government car - which would be registered in the system. Maybe they were watching from the other side of the law? Lestrade shook his head. He hadn't been working any prolific cases recently. Had been avoiding all media contact since...

...Since the Holmeses came into the picture.

For the second time in the space of ten minutes, Lestrade brought his head down on his desk. Fucking Holmeses. He was laying low, trying his damned hardest not to do anything that would require Mycroft Holmes's attention - he couldn't stand the man. To be fair, he couldn't stand the younger Holmes either, but at least he helped with Lestrade's work.

Speaking of which...

* * *

"Lestrade? What do you want?" Sherlock's baritone voice boomed out even before Lestrade knocked on his flat door.

Lestrade forwent the obligatory knock and simply walked in uninvited. "Are you clean, Holmes?" he asked as he usually did when he dropped by unannounced. He had taken Mycroft's concern to heart despite their mutual antagonism and frequented Sherlock's flat even if he didn't have a case sometimes.

Turns out, Sherlock was more in danger of being killed by his distraught landlord than by drugs.

So far, Sherlock had only slipped-up once, and that had been because Lestrade had taken a bit of a spill during a chase and had been confined to his flat for nearly a whole week.

"I need your help." Lestrade said, plopping himself on the sofa in Sherlock's sitting room. Sherlock was sitting on the coffee table facing away from him and studying a series of mud splatters on a glass plate.

"If it's about the suspected burglary-gone-wrong, I cannot tell you anything besides the fact that the kill had been the objective, the stolen objects merely collateral to get you moronic policemen off his, or her tracks. If you want more information, I'll have to see the crime scene in person, not just pictures of it." Sherlock told him without turning.

"Like we agreed, I won't tolerate you in a crime scene until you're absolutely clean." Lestrade sighed. "Because if I find you there, I really will arrest you."

Sherlock ignored him in favor of examining his seemingly fascinating samples of caked dirt in a stronger lighting. "So, what do you want?"

Lestrade held out a thin file. Sherlock either heard, or sensed him move and grasped blindly for the file before snagging it on the second try. Finally, he looked away from his mud splatters and opened the file.

Inside was a series of pictures of a silver car parked outside Scotland Yard, a thirty-some year old suit getting coffee. His partner - an older man with greying hair - standing inside a phone booth, holding the phone between his cheek and shoulder, scrawling something on the back of a smudgy advertisement.

Sherlock glanced over the pictures and threw them back into the file and shoved them back in Lestrade's direction. "I take on interesting cases, I do _not_ meddle in Mycroft's paranoid tendancies." he growled, sounding vaguely peeved and just a little insulted that Lestrade would want his skills for such a trivial... whatever this was.

"But, this _is_ Mycroft's doing?" Lestrade asked, just for clarification.

"If you've already come to that conclusion, I fail to see why you needed to come to me." Sherlock sniffed condenscendingly. "But Mycroft _is _getting sloppy if you were able to spot his men out _and _counter-surveil them."

"Right." Lestrade pushed himself up from his seat and straightened his jacket. "Thanks then." He turned to leave, then turned back. "And Sherlock," he held out a hand expectantly. "give it up."

Sherlock blinked at him, wide-eyed and innocent, which shouted deception. "What?"

"You're scratching your temples again." Lestrade gestured to the slightly red scratch marks halfway hidden under Sherlock's curls. "You do that when your mind is being really, really obnoxious. And when your brain starts annoying you, you shut it up."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pulled out a see-through package from in-between his seat's cushion and armrest. He threw the offending package at Lestrade and crossed his arms, scowling.

Lestrade plucked the thrown package out of the air and pocketed it. "I'll stop by tomorrow with whatever I can find, okay?" he assured the sulking detective.

"Tonight." Sherlock blurted suddenly, then lowered his voice in embarrassment. "...Tonight." He said it in the closest tone to pleading that Lestrade had ever heard.

"I'll see what I can do."

* * *

Back in the bullpen, Lestrade collapsed into his chair and sighed. The sound errupting from his lungs was almost explosive in the silence that was Scotland Yard in those unholy hours when nobody was supposed to be awake, much less at work.

He picked up his desk phone and dialled a number that was scrawled into his notebook, a number that he had seen and scribbled down on a whim from a glance at Sherlock's phone.

_"Hello?" _Mycroft's smooth voice greeted him.

"Hello Mister Holmes, it's Detective Sergeant Gregory Lestrade of New Scotland Yard." Lestrade informed him. "Sorry for the late-night call."

_"Please, don't be."_ Lestrade could almost hear the fake politician's smile being conveyed through the scratchy speaker.

"I won't take up much of your time. I just want to know why you've got a surveilance team on me, and I'm hoping you'd call them off." Lestrade was quick to get right down to business, just like always.

There was silence on the other end. _"...Ah."_

"Yeah."

_"My apologies detective, I will see to it right away."_ Mycroft did not sound in the least apologetic, or reassuring.

"Why have you got a team on me, anyway?" Lestrade asked irrately.

_"For trivial reasons, I admit. I did not mean to be offending. You must accept my sincerest apologies."_ Mycroft Holmes? Sincere? Is this the first time in history the two had been involved in the same sentence? Lestrade really did think so.

He was silent for a moment, thinking. "Ah, you're right, you didn't need a surveilance team, you've got CCTV. Trivial indeed. And, let's admit it, you wanted me to know they were there. You and your bloody mind games. And no, I don't accept your apology. But please, do get them off my back, they're annoying me." He then promptly threw the phone back into its cradle.

"Fucking Holmes." he spat, cradling his head in his hands.

Then, his mobile phone chimed. _I try my best -MH_

...Fuck! Did he just hear that?

Lestrade examined his desk with his eyes critically, trying to spot out something different. Nothing. Then, he ran his hands on the underside of his desk, still nothing.

He dug into his trouser pocket for his pocket knife and used it to pop off the earpiece of his desk phone. "Fucking Holmes!" he repeated, with more venom this time. He tore out the bug in his phone and crushed it under his heel.

* * *

Thousands of miles away - on the far side of the earth - Mycroft Holmes sat back in his seat and smiled in smug satisfaction as he watched Lestrade run his fingers through his hair at his desk on the live security video footage inside Scotland Yard.

Five minutes later, Lestrade stood up and gathered a casefile together - presumably for Sherlock - and left the office.

The silver car did not follow his movements, but the CCTV cameras did.

Mycroft made a mental note to set up surveilance on the detective sergeant's flat - for security's sake - ... and just to annoy him. Mycroft Holmes was a man with many ulterior motives and sometimes he acted on them.

He had always had a fine skill of mingling work with play and this was just too much fun.

_Okay, Sergeant_, he thought, _the ball's in your court now._


	6. Afraid

Afraid

The odd banter between Mycroft Holmes and Gregory Lestrade continued. Sometimes, it was Lestrade pulling a book off his sitting room shelf only to find a tiny surveilance camera peering out at him from behind it. And sometimes, it was Mycroft finding the very same camera broken in his office desk drawer. And joking texts of 'Shall I fire you today? -MH' were prompty responded with a 'Your personal patissier fancies me. How's the diet? -Lestrade' Although, if push came to shove, Mycroft didn't doubt that Lestrade would be petulant enough to coerce his easily-flustered patissier to secretly administer laxatives into his desserts 'To help the diet'.

Because Lestrade was considered dangerous in that mildly exasperating sort of way. Not offending enough to garner an assassination attempt, but just annoying enough to keep Mycroft on-guard.

Which was why Mycroft found it odd that Lestrade had sent him a text saying 'Sherlock's gone missing', in response to Mycroft's 'You and Sherlock handled that killer elegantly, though I think early Spring is still a little _too_ early for a swim in the Thames, don't you?'

It took Mycroft a moment to realize that Lestrade was in dead earnest, all memory of their banter tucked away into the background of his worry. With a few clicks, Mycroft pulled up CCTV footages all over London_. When did you last see him? -MH_

_Last week. Something's wrong. -Lestrade_

Mycroft frowned. He called in Anthea and asked after Sherlock's whereabouts. Nobody knew. In fact, nobody had noticed he was missing until Lestrade called their attention to the matter. They had all assumed Sherlock was causing his usual trouble and were simply waiting for him to grow bored and show back up on their surveilance.

_Bloody idiots._ Mycroft inwardly cursed. _Getting paid for a job they wern't even doing. _He'd handle them later once Sherlock was found, rest assured, heads would roll.

_Where did you last see him? -MH_

_At his flat. I was wrapping up a case I had his help on. -Lestrade_

Mycroft viewed the CCTV footage on Sherlock's flat a week earlier. Sure enough, Lestrade could be seen coming and going every other day, sometimes more. That serial killer had been a particularly elusive one. Sherlock had been delighted. Half-a-day after Lestrade's last exit, Sherlock's form was caught on the surveilance and Mycroft watched him hail a cab. But where was he going?

The cab drove off, just like that. And Sherlock never returned to his flat.

In the surveilance footage from yesterday, Lestrade arrived during lunch break and left without finding Sherlock. He seemed puzzled, but unconcerned. He probably thought he just came at a bad time when Sherlock was out. Earlier this morning, Lestrade dropped by again before work, looking a tad more worried. Again, he did not find Sherlock. But he lingered in Sherlock's flat for a bit longer than possibly necessary.

When he reappeared, his face was paler and his lips were pressed together. His left hand was shoved in his jacket pocket, but the other was not. He probably found another stash of drugs in Sherlock's flat and was predictably upset. Now, ten minutes ago, Lestrade had come by for another visit, hoping to catch the consulting detective at home. That had been when he had sent the text to Mycroft.

Mycroft frowned. It wasn't a mystery, what Lestrade assumed happened to Sherlock. He was probably worrying right now that Sherlock was lying in some back-alley ditch OD-ing.

"Anthea." Mycroft called out softly, voice devoid of any emotion. "Find me Sherlock. Now." Anthea raised an eyebrow at his tone - or rather - lack of. "By all means necessary."

His PA nodded at her blackberry. "As you wish."

She then turned and walked out.

* * *

_Holy crap._ Lestrade could only stand and stare. _Holy fucking crap_. Sure, he wanted to find Sherlock, and he wanted to find him quick. _But still, isn't this a bit much...? _He closed his gaping mouth. "Sherlock's going to kill you all for this."

Ten, or so, of the most skilled forensic analysts in the world, hand-picked by Mycorft Holmes himself, were currently tearing apart and meticulously cataloguing Sherlock's flat. Three of them looked at him, the other seven didn't even signify they heard him speak.

Two of the coverall-clad analysts twitched in disgust at the contents of Sherlock's fridge but other than that, none of them even hinted at possessing flexable facial muscles. They did not speak, sniff, sneeze, sneer, gape, gag, and rarely even blinked. They were like robots. Lestrade vaguely doubted they were even breathing.

"You think something in here's going to tell you where the Hell Sherlock's gone?" Again, no response. Lestrade raked his fingers through his hair in frustration. "Yeah, figures. Clears alot up, thanks."

"Please, if you will leave them to concentrate on their work." Mycroft's voice sounded patiently from behind him.

Lestrade whirled around. "Please tell me you've got good news." he sighed.

"I'm afraid not." Mycroft shook his head. Then he offered Lestrade a styrofoam cup of coffee. "Peace offering?"

Lestrade took it absently as he continued watching the team of forensics inside Sherlock's chaotic flat. "Thanks." He took a sip without even jokingly asking if it was poisoned. He was even more out of it than Mycroft thought.

"Are you alright?" Lestrade turned his head to look at Mycroft, eyebrow upraised.

"Is this coffee drugged? Because I swear I can hear a faint tinge of worry in your voice, Mister Holmes." Ah, that was more like it. Although, the detective's snark didn't help conceal the worry lines on his face.

Mycroft decided not to call him out on it. "Were there..." Mycroft's voice caught in his throat, but he knew he had to ask. "Did you find drugs in Sherlock's flat, Sergeant?"

Lestrade's breath hitched and Mycroft watched the muscles in his jaw tighten. "Yeah." he responded darkly.

"Do you think Sherlock..." Mycroft's sentence was immediately cut off before he could complete it.

"I'm not ready to." The raw honestly laced with fear in Lestrade's voice startled Mycroft. He was... scared? Afraid of finding Sherlock dead. Who was it? Mycroft wondered breifly. Who did Lestrade lose in that narcotics division? What had happened? He knew it would take much to make a man like Lestrade tremble in fear.

But he was now.

"Fuck." Lestrade cursed as he put his shaking coffee cup aside and shoved his hands into his pockets. "Call me if you find something. I need a smoke." He brushed past Mycroft and disappeared down the hall.

Mycroft watched him go.

* * *

He felt like the proverbial rug had been yanked out from under his feet and he couldn't recover fast enough to dodge the truck that ran over him.

After three hours of disecting Sherlock's flat inch-by-inch, the forensics team turned up with a hidden stash of cocaine and, if the analysts were correct in their findings, a considerable amount of drugs must've been recently removed from the stash. But no hint as to where Sherlock had gone.

_Christ_, Lestrade thought to himself, _I'll need to fucking drug-bust his place every other day just to keep his flat clean! Shit! Where the Hell did Sherlock go with his fucking drugs?_

Mycroft watched Lestrade take the news. First he was shocked, annoyed, angry, and then just scared. Truth be told, Mycroft was growing considerably worried about Sherlock's well-being as well. Perhaps he should let Lestrade go home for some well-deserved rest to gather his wits about him. He looked like he might collapse at any time.

"It is growing late, detective. Perhaps it would be wise to take a short break from the investigation."

Lestrade glanced at the room's window. It wasn't early, but neither was it very dark. He quickly understood Mycroft's intentions but rest and time to brood on his blatant failure of keeping Sherlock safe really wasn't what he needed right now.

He stood up. "Not yet." he said stubbornly, staring at his feet.

Mycroft caught the gaze of one of the analysts reporting their findings to them and subtly nodded his head in the direction of the door. All of Mycroft's subordinates knew a dismissal when it was applied to them. They filed out quietly, marching in single file out of the door, leaving the two men alone.

After making sure the door was closed behind the men, Mycroft let out a breath and turned to Lestrade. "I understand that you are worried about Sherlock, detective." he said quietly. "But you really must get some rest."

Lestrade snorted and looked away from his scuffed shoes. "Rest? You think I can sleep...?" he gestured to his distressed state. "Mister Holmes..."

"I can see that you're afraid." Mycroft declared softly. "That you are assuming the worst for Sherlock. And I cannot tell you honestly that your fears are unfounded. But believe me when I say that I will do _everything_ in my power to bring Sherlock back safely." He managed a weak smile. "If our luck holds, this will all just be Sherlock's way of winding us up. Perhaps he merely went away to pursue a case or follow up on a lead without a mind to tell us so."

Lestrade nodded stiffly, wordlessly, shifting from one foot to the other awkwardly. Seeing as he could not think of anything to say, he then turned to leave. "Shall I have a car brought around to drive you home?" Mycroft offered tentatively.

Lestrade stopped in the doorway and turned back to him. "Don't bother. I'm going to look for Sherlock, maybe he's wandered to a crime scene or something, he's always been a bit irked at not being let in for the investigation." At Mycroft's surprised, intregued look. "Look, Mister Holmes. You're right when you say that this might just be Sherlock winding us up. I'm sure your men will do a much better job of finding him than I can. And I'm sure you're just as worried about him as I am." Mycroft lowered his eyes. "Right now, I'm afraid of finding Sherlock dead - Hell - I'm even more scared of finding him alive but pumped full of drugs. And the problem is that he's always like this, always impulsive to stupid proportions without thinking about what his actions are causing other people but you can't help but worry about him." Mycroft winced at the truth in Lestrade's words. And he felt just a little bit unnerved at how he could relate.

"And you feel so helpless at the same time because you can't help him more than he can help himself." Lestrade swallowed. "But I'm not just going to go home, even if it's the easier option. I mean-... I've had bad experiences with drugs, but just because I'm afraid doesn't mean I'm going to run and hide." he told Mycroft firmly. "Please, call me if you get anymore information."

Mycroft nodded at him. "I will."

Lestrade smiled weakly. "Thanks, Mister Holmes." And he meant that about more than his cooperation on the investigation.

* * *

"Hey." The scrawny young woman with stringy blonde hair sitting on the park bench peered up at Lestrade from behind thick lashes. "Are you Maisie?" he asked her tentatively.

The woman nodded after a moment's pause. "How do you know my name? Are you a copper?" The cockney accent dripped from her every word.

"'Fraid I am." Lestrade sighed. "I'm off duty, though." he reassured her at her deer-caught-in-headlights look. "Can I sit down?" he asked her, gesturing to the vacent portion of the bench beside Maisie.

The Maisie nodded at him slowly like a cornered mouse just waiting for the opportune moment to escape. Lestrade sat beside her at least an arm's length distance away on the relatively short bench. He waited for her to become a little more comfortable with his presence and sipped a cup of coffee while he sat quietly.

"Maisie, you're part of Sherlock's homeless network, arn't you?" Lestrade asked softly when he felt the woman was ready. She looked puzzled at him for a moment. "Sherlock Holmes." Lestrade added.

Maisie nodded. "Yeah. What about it?" she asked, somewhat defensively.

"There's nothing wrong with that, Maisie." Lestrade smiled gently at her. "But I need you to tell me something important." Maisie raised her dirty golden head a little to signify she was listening. "I need you to tell me when was the last time you heard from Sherlock."

Maisie fell silent and Lestrade let her think about his question for a moment. "I don't know..." the woman mumbled. "Sometime day before yesterday, maybe?"

Lestrade's heart soared. "Do you remember where? Can you tell me what happened?" he asked urgently, but not roughly.

"He was askin' around for some bloke named..." Maisie frowned, thinking. "...Hansel, Hansel Normandy."

"Odd name." Lestrade remarked dryly.

That earned him a rare giggle from the cautious woman. "That's why I remembered."

"Do you know where Sherlock was last seen?" Lestrade prodded.

"I don't know where, it's called a network because once someone hears about it, it get's passed on, you know?" Maisie frowned and shook her head. "I heard it from Checkers, I think he got picked up by the police for squatting last night. You might ask him."

"Alright." Lestrade nodded at her gratefully as he stood. "You've been a great help, Maisie, thank you." He stuffed his hand in his pocket and placed a few crumpled bills on the vacated spot on the bench. "You look after yourself, alright?"

Maisie smiled shyly back at him as he left.

* * *

"Oi!" Lestrade's booming voice woke up any sleeping officers in the vicinity. "Anybody here know a bloke named 'Checkers'?" A few officers did, but Checkers had been turned out just a few hours ago.

Lestrade cursed. That was the thing about the homeless ones. They knew the streets of London better than any cop. If Checkers didn't want to be found, he wouldn't be. Lestrade sighed and decided to follow up the 'Hansel Normandy' lead.

* * *

"Sir." Anthea called out softly as she entered Mycroft's office.

Mycroft looked up. "What is it, Anthea?"

"It's Detective Sergeant Lestrade, he's got a lead on a lad named 'Checkers'. So far, he's the latest one to see Sherlock." Anthea told him.

"'Checkers'?" Mycroft intoned, eyebrow raised.

"Charles Edward. One of your brother's homeless network." Anthea informed him crisply. "The police had him in custody for squatting in an unoccupied flat but he's been turned loose a few hours ago. DS Lestrade seems to have given up on that lead and is pursuing another."

"Do we know what that lead is?" Mycroft asked. Anthea shook her head. "Very well, let him follow that lead to wherever it may take him. In the meantime, track this Charles Edward down and find out what he knows about Sherlock's whereabouts."

Anthea nodded and left.

* * *

"Hello." Lestrade smiled at the elderly lady who answered Hansel Normandy's door. "Mrs. Normandy? I'm Detective Sergeant Lestrade. Is Hansel Normandy in?"

The lady clicked her tongue on her teeth in a pitying sort of way. "Sorry luv, you've just missed him. He's probably gone down to the pub with friends."

"Oh..." Lestrade bit his lip, considering his options. "Do you happen to know which pub that might be?" he asked her with an embarrassed smile.

"I'm afraid I don't know that. I'm a bit old for wild binges at the pub, now." The woman chuckled.

"Wouldn't have guessed, ma'am." Lestrade smiled at her. "Anyway, thank you for your help. Sorry for the late hour." he grimaced apologetically.

"Better go before my husband returns and starts asking questions." Mrs. Normandy jested lightly as Lestrade turned to leave.

Lestrade chuckled when he caught sight of an empty car park and turned back. "Mrs. Normandy," he called out before the woman shut the door. "Did Mr. Normandy drive to the pub?"

Mrs. Normandy frowned and walked out of the door a few paces to get a look at the car park. "That's odd..." she frowned.

"Mrs. Normandy, what kind of car does your husband drive?"

* * *

"I swear I don't know anything!" Checkers insisted for the third time since those suits accosted him. "Who are you? 'R you coppers?" He kept his gaze on the ground.

The suited men said nothing. "Charles Edward." He saw high-heeled toes enter his line of vision. He looked up to see a rather sexy bodyline accentuated by a tight-fitting skirt and a plunging V-neck that automatically drew eyes, he raised his gaze further to alight on an attractive face. "That _is_ your name, isn't it?"

"Oh, anybody for you, babe." Checkers breathed helplessly.

Anthea smiled. "Where were we, then? Ah, yes. Sherlock Holmes?"

Words were spilling out of Checker's mouth before a second thought passed his mind.

* * *

Lestrade pulled up at an abandoned warehouse and turned his car engine off. He had asked someone at the Yard to track the GPS on Normandy's car after driving by the pub and making sure Normandy wasn't there. The signal led him straight to the place he was now.

Lestrade didn't know a thing about whatever case Sherlock might be working on, but he was certain that if he had been following up on some lead, he would be with Normandy. That man stunk like a bleeding suspect in a murder inquiry! He was acting suspicious and Lestrade was intent to get to the bottom of it.

Seeing no movement or lights inside the warehouse, he got out of his car and walked in. He saw Normandy's vehicle and the broken chain that should've held the warehouse doors closed. It stood a few feet open. "Sherlock?" he called out quietly.

Nothing.

There was a whisper of sound deeper inside the warehouse and Lestrade crept stealthily toward it, heart beating in his ribcage. Now he could hear voices. He heard a man's voice say something along the lines of 'Holmes the meddler' and Sherlock's weak chuckles replied.

_Snap!_ Lestrade winced at the explosive noise that errupted from the bottom of his foot where he had unknowingly stepped on a plastic shard. Well, so much for the element of surprise. He rolled his eyes and strode out into the open. "Detective Sergeant Lestrade." he announced gruffly. "Hansel Normandy, please-..."

Suddenly there was the sound of feet hastily beating concrete and Mr. Normandy dashed off. "Hey...!" Lestrade moved to pursue him when he saw Sherlock and gasped.

Sherlock was lying on the ground not tied-up like Lestrade had previously thought, but he still seemed to have difficulty moving. He couldn't push himself up. "Sherlock, are you alright? You haven't been answering your texts. What's going on?"

Then Lestrade knew something was wrong. Sherlock was choking, gasping, his body was spasming and trembling. "Sherlock-..." Lestrade stepped to assist when he felt, rather than heard, something crack under his foot. Oh, he was all for stepping on things today, wasn't he? He glanced down and recoiled as though burned.

There was an empty syringe lying broken on the ground, Lestrade could see remnants of a clear liquid behind the spider-webbed cracks.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade dashed over, falling to his knees and turning the consulting detective over onto his side when he realized Sherlock wasn't breathing.

In his fuzzy brain, he couldn't remember a time he was so afraid in his life.

_"Goddammit! Sherlock!"_


	7. Delayed

Delayed

"Sergeant?" Lestrade jumped, shaken out of his thoughts by the new intern at the mortuary, what was her name again?

"Yeah, sorry, what's that, uh-... Molly Hooper, right?" The woman, no more than a little girl, nodded quietly.

"I've been trying to get your attention for a few minutes now." Molly chattered, flustered. "Are you alright? You look a little sick."

"You've been zoned out for a while now." DI Meadows chimed in. "I think you should take a rest, eat or something, before you fall over."

"Ah, no. It's fine, Sir." Lestrade shook his head, finally turning away from the pale, dark-haired body on the stainless steel gurney. "The victim just reminded me of someone I know." He motioned for Molly to cover the corpse and nodded his head at Meadows. "Sorry about that."

Meadows just shrugged his shoulders, pretending not to be concerned. "It happens sometimes." he hummed casually. "Hey, I'm about to go interview a suspect, you go down to the station, update the murder board, search the archives for unsolved murders with this victim type, and get us both something to eat. I want there to be food on my desk by the time I get back." He patted Lestrade's shoulder on his way out.

That's what Lestrade liked about Meadows. He didn't continue pushing for perfection when he knew someone was having a bad day, but he didn't coddle them either.

He and Meadows left the mortuary separately, Meadows to his suspects, while Lestrade waited in the hall for the autopsy report. It struck him in full force a few minutes after Meadows left him and images of their most recent murder victim's flooded his brain.

Not even twenty-four hours ago, Sherlock Holmes was pronounced clinically dead.

Lestrade doubled over and vomited right then and there. _So, this what delayed shock feels like? _He heard Molly's footsteps as she dashed down the hall to help him and felt her rub his back soothingly. He took a shuddering breath and wiped his mouth. "Sorry, must be something I ate." he lied.

Molly looked from him to the room that held their victim and back. He could almost hear the gears in her brain turning. "Sorry to hear that, Sergeant." The intern sent him a forced smile. "My brother has a weak stomach. Always eats things he shouldn't." she rattled on. "I'll just, um, get something to clean that up with, shall I? Do you need anything? Water?"

Lestrade nodded slowly. "Sorry about that."

Molly shook her head. "Oh, don't worry about it. Dr. Bullard always jokes that all the cleaning supplies are to clean up after queasy rookie detectives. It's not anything new."

Lestrade smiled and let out a weak chuckle. "Thanks, Ms. Hooper."

* * *

"Sergeant?" Mycroft sounded honestly surprised to see Lestrade in the hospital.

They were both in the corridor outside the private wards. Lestrade was sitting on a bench and Mycroft had just walked in to visit Sherlock. "Hello, Mister Holmes."

Mycroft approached him awkwardly. "You are not going in?" he asked curiously, glancing pointedly at the closed ward opposite Lestrade.

Lestrade shrugged. "Sherlock's sleeping." he said as his explanation. "Didn't really want to disturb him." Which was a total lie. Lestrade wanted to go inside and make sure Sherlock was okay but he didn't feel like he could look at Sherlock sleep in his hospital bed, gaunt and attatched to an IV drip and not vomit again.

Mycroft seemed to have come to the same conclusion as he didn't press the matter. "I'm sorry for not coming to visit earlier. I was delayed by various important meetings that simply could not be rescheduled." He sighed wearily. "I hear you came to visit earlier before work this morning." he said, changing the subject.

"Just making sure he's still breathing." Lestrade shook his head. "If your men hadn't come with the paramedics..." He pressed his lips together. Sherlock hadn't been breathing for at least two minutes before the paramedics Mycroft sent arrived on the scene and resuscitated him. The doctors assured them that Sherlock's life was no longer in any danger but he was still weak. "How did you know where to find us?" Lestrade asked.

"I have you to thank for that, Sergeant." Mycroft admitted, Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "I followed up on your lead and heard a bit about what Sherlock was investigating from one of Sherlock's homeless network by the name of 'Checkers'."

"You actually found him?" Lestrade stared at him in awe for a moment. "I know you're not allowed to tell me this," he said finally. "but, really, who _are _you Mister Holmes?"

Mycroft allowed himself a slight chuckle. Then he grew serious. "But, all joking aside." He bit his lip hesitantly. "Thank you." Lestrade's eyebrows flew into his hairline. "For looking after Sherlock."

"Bloody good that did." Lestrade grumbled.

Mycroft looked slightly aghast at that declaration. "If you hadn't dropped by Sherlock's flat, I might not have even knew Sherlock was missing. And if you had gone home when I felt you should have, we wouldn't have gotten to him in time." He argued.

"I should've known something was off earlier on." Lestrade shook his head grimly.

"But a delayed reaction is better than none at all." Mycroft reminded him. "Sherlock is unpredictable as a rule, there was no way you could've known."

Lestrade rubbed his face. "No, I guess not." Then, his head jumped up. "Hold on! Are you trying to comfort me?" He looked shocked and feigned indignation.

"Of course not, Sergeant." Mycroft retorted coolly but his smirk indicated otherwise.

Lestrade scowled in embarrassment. "Just as long as it doesn't become a habit."

"Let's hope it doesn't." Mycroft gave his umbrella a little twirl and opened the sliding door to Sherlock's private ward. "Until next time, Sergeant." And he disappeared inside.

"And you call me childish." Sherlock remarked from his bed where he had a laptop open on his knees.

"You _are_ childish, Sherlock." Mycroft lobbed back.

"Then, what do you call-... that?" Sherlock gestured vaguely to the closed door behind Mycroft with a scoff. "Really! 'Thank you... for looking after Sherlock'." he mimicked Mycroft's tone mockingly. He looked up when Mycroft said nothing. "Mycroft?"

Mycroft just stood watching him, lips pinched into a thin line, expression unreadable. Then it dawned on Sherlock. "Oh..." He gasped softly.

Mycroft cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Yes, well..." He clenched and loosened his grip on his umbrella handle, quietly letting out some suppressed energy.

What to say? Words like 'please', 'thank you', 'I worried', 'you shouldn't have', 'I'm sorry', and 'I forgive you' were almost nonexistant in the Holmes dictionary.

"Well," Mycroft coughed. "I guess it's never too late to apologize to Sergeant Lestrade. You did cause him a fair bit of distress."

Sherlock looked pained. "Do I have to?"

"Well, he did save your life. I don't see why not."

* * *

It was a full two weeks later that Sherlock drew up the courage to just get the damn business over with. But, in the end, it seemed like Big Brother was right.

"Ah, that's alright, Sherlock. So long as you're okay." As delayed as his apology was, it was well recieved.


	8. Healing

A/N: Sorry about the long lapse in updating! Had a bit of a problem and got my submission access to this account temporarily locked down. But~! All better now! ...Hopefully... haha. *sighs*

Anyway, enjoy!

* * *

Healing

Three months after Sherlock's recovery from his Hansel Normandy case, two weeks since a run-in with a violent suspect who had broken his arm, and just last night, he had been high. Sometimes, Lestrade thought as he sat in the seat by Sherlock's bed reading the newspaper, he couldn't tell if he was more of a nurse than a copper.

Sherlock stirred and let out a weak groan, cracking his eyes open and promptly squeezing them shut again in pain. "Headache?" Lestrade asked brightly over his paper, a painfully fake smile plastered on his face. He knew how artificial his expression was and he knew Sherlock would have to be blind not to see it. He also knew that he could hide his annoyance much better than this, but he didnt. It annoyed the Hell out of Sherlock. And right now, Lestrade felt he had that right.

"Go away." Sherlock groaned as quietly as possible into his pillow. "_Now_, Lestrade."

"Nope." Lestrade's just retorted calmly, too accustomed to Sherlock's petulant tantrums to be bothered anymore. "There's a few painkillers and a glass of water on the nightstand if you ever decide to grow up and just behave."

Sherlock snorted and scowled defiantly at Lestrade. Ten minutes later, pain won out and Sherlock sighed, snagging the painkillers.

Lestrade folded the top half of his paper down to look at Sherlock reprimandingly after he had taken his medication. "Oh, for God's sake!" Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Let me save you the time, Lestrade. You found me high on drugs last night when you came to check up on me. You're disappointed in me because I told you I'd try to ease off but I broke my promise. And then, you will utterly fail at trying to guilt-trip me into apologizing and getting professional help, i.e. Mycroft. Right?"

"Guess again." Lestrade snapped coolly.

Sherlock's eyebrows rose. "No?"

"Yep, you're wrong."

It took Sherlock half a second to find the handcuff circling one of his thin wrists, securing him to the bed. "Oh, so it's come to this." he sighed melodramatically. "The cold turkey."

"'Fraid it has." Lestrade sighed.

"And Mycroft agreed to this?" Sherlock asked dubiously.

"Nope."

"Oh, he doesn't know yet."

"...Yeah."

There was a drawn out silence in which Sherlock contemplated the pros and cons of playing along with Lestrade's attempts of getting him off the intoxicants.

Ten seconds later... "Lestrade?"

"What is it, Sherlock?"

"I do hope that towering mountain of casefiles on the floor is for me because this is going to be an utterly horrible rehabilitation."

"See I've come prepared, Sherlock. Knock yourself out."

* * *

"Why do you care, anyway?" Sherlock's quiet question almost passed Lestrade by. He was still not raising his voice because of the pounding in his head. He was smoking now, Lestrade had stuffed the pack into his hand after he had been reprimanded twice about not picking manically at the cast on his arm. At least now he had something to fiddle with and to take the edge off.

Lestrade looked at Sherlock in slight bemusement. "What?"

Sherlock looked endearingly unsure of himself, which, in any other situation, would have Lestrade's warning bells going off. "Well, I'm certain that I'm alot more than... 'not worth the trouble'. And I know you've had bad experiences with drugs. So... why?"

Lestrade briefly wondered if Sherlock was really waiting for an answer to that and if his reply would disrupt the dynamic between them. When Sherlock didn't look away for the next few minutes, Lestrade bit his lip. "I-..." He started, then abruptly stopped himself. "Just wait, hold on a moment."

He got up and set to work uprooting any and all surveilance in Sherlock's bedroom. All the video cameras were unplugged and all the microphones were deposited in the sitting room out of earshot. Then, Lestrade came back and sat down again.

"Look, Sherlock, I've-... I've never talked about this to anyone, okay?" Lestrade said warningly.

"I won't tell." Sherlock promised solemnly.

Lestrade blew out a shaky breath. Was he really going to do this? Was he even ready to? He supposed, maybe - after all these years - he should be. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. "You know, I was a punk long before I was a copper." he began. Sherlock's eyebrows raised. "Yep, dropped out of school, ran away from home, got my own flat, a dump of a place, and wandered around getting into trouble. I did alot of bad things back then. I was one of those hoodie-types that jacked cars, B&E'd, stole a constable's cap and gun once just because I could do it. I couldn't get the handcuffs, though, that was a shame."

Sherlock was grinning, almost laughing by then. "Seriously, Lestrade, _you_?"

Lestrade nodded slowly. "I did drugs back then, too." Sherlock perked up at that. He had deduced a past drug addiction but had assumed it was from his time in the undercover narcotics division. "Yeah, I got into all sorts of shit." Lestrade absently scratched his temple with his thumb. "Lots of the lads in the neighborhood knew about me because I got into the worst sort of trouble but never got caught by the police."

There was a moment's pause. "But one day, I _was_ caught." Lestrade let out a breathy chuckle. "This old copper from the station down the street kind of knew about the stuff I was doing but never could catch me in the act. He put surveilance on me until I slipped up my act. But, he didn't bring me down to the station, or anything. I was pretty high by then, don't really remember what he said, or for that matter, what _I _said, but he let me go."

"Course, I went right back to the streets to get drugs and he caught me a few weeks later hustling some rich bloke. He threw me in a cell until I sobered up and turned me out after making me promise I'd stop. And, of course, I lied." Sherlock raised an eyebrow. This was a story he was familiar with. "I started getting smart and found ways to fake the results on my drugs test so that I'd look clean. Naturally, the copper who always caught me found out about it but he wasn't angry or anything." Lestrade's mind seemed to wander off for a moment before being reeled back. "Anyway, long story short. He just kept nagging about my habit relentlessly! He'd always lock me up in a cell when he was on duty, and when he wasn't he let me use his couch where he and the missus kept a sharp eye on me so that I wouldn't run away or anything. And they were real careful about their health so they never let me smoke either. Let's just say, Hell on Earth."

Lestrade scratched the back of his neck sheepishly. "Anyway, it grew into a habit. Everytime I tried to get high, I remembered that he'd always find out and come to annoy me so I decided handling the withdrawal symptoms were less trouble and eased off. When I was clean, he proposed that I should try joining the force and so I did. I was a good officer, I knew what I was looking for and I was comfortable on the streets so they made me an undercover cop." He shrugged his shoulders. "And that was that."

Sherlock scowled at him. "I feel like I've just been told a very condensed, basics-only version of an unfinished story." he complained. "What have you left out?"

Lestrade shrugged again. "That's for me to know, and you never to find out." Then he grinned mischeviously. "But, seeing as you haven't once complained about your headache for the last fifteen minutes, I'd say my storytelling wasn't all that useless."

"Useless? No!" Sherlock scoffed sarcastically. "I feel better about myself already."

"Right, right." Lestrade smirked back. "I'm going to go and make tea, you want some?"

Sherlock nodded and watched Lestrade turn to leave the room. "What happened to him?" He asked suddenly. Lestrade froze in his steps. "What happened to make you so afraid of drugs? Seeing as you haven't mentioned a name and that you've never spoken of this police officer before, I'm assuming this man has something to do with it."

Lestrade's voice was almost mechanic. "He's dead." He didn't even turn back as he replied. "I never really got over it."

That day, Lestrade spent the night curled up on Sherlock's sitting room sofa staring blankly through the TV screen without seeing it. Sherlock watched him through the crack in his bedroom door but pretended he hadn't bothered when the morning came.

* * *

Lestrade greeted him the next morning with a bright grin and breakfast but the smile didn't quite touch his eyes.

Sherlock uncomfortably told him to stop angsting unnecessarily about his pathetic past. And Lestrade responded irrately by telling him that there was a puke bucket under his bed just in case of emergencies.

In their own awkward way, Mycroft thought as he turned off the one microphone in Sherlock's room that Lestrade had missed, he supposed that was the best sympathy the two men could offer on each other's messed-up lives.

They both had their scars, emotional, physical, and psychological, and they hadn't given themselves the proper chance to begin healing... until now. Mycroft's only hope was that nothing would go wrong for them in that aspect.

None of them could've known that, only a month later, one more scar would be added to their tally.


	9. Trapped

Trapped

Lestrade knows exactly when he and Mycroft started evolving from wary aqcuaintences to friends. It started with a kidnapping. But, it wasn't one of Mycroft's 'show up in mysterious black car for a cloak-and-dagger talk' kind of kidnapping, oh no, it was one of those 'resist and I'll put a bullet in your brain 'cause I'm a motherf***ing terrorist!' kind of kidnapping. Seriously, black balaclavas and all.

In truth, Lestrade shouldn't have been involved at all in the kidnapping. He was an innocent bystander with bad timing, and an even worse choice of aqcuaintances. In fact, he had just popped by Sherlock's flat for five minutes to poke his head in and see how the consulting detective was doing when the men barged in.

To be fair to themselves, Sherlock and Lestrade put up a fair fight as only a detoxing drug addict and a sleep-deprived workaholic could. But, numbers and guns won out in the end and the two detectives found themselves bundled - with the obligatory bloody noses and bruises - into a white van at gunpoint by the men. They had been bound hand and foot and blindfolded. Sherlock had been gagged because of his incessant deductive chatter but Lestrade, who had wisely remained quiet, preferring to listen, was left alone.

Lestrade had the urge to ask someone where they were going but, knowing Mycroft Holmes for too long, he knew he wouldn't get an answer and would probably get gagged for it. He decided that staying quiet was the smartest thing he could do right now.

* * *

Mycroft was poring over a thick dossier when the e-mail popped up on his laptop screen. He frowned. Only people on a need-to-know basis knew this address, and the sender was definitely not one of them. Curious, he clicked on the message in his inbox. There were two lines of computer code, both links for what seemed to be live video files.

He pursed his lips and clicked on the first one. Up on the screen, Sherlock's familiar face appeared. He was absolutely livid and looked like he could use a smoke, only natural when one is kidnapped halfway through his stages of recovery from drug abuse. His hair was a mess, his clothes were ruffled, his eyes were red, he rubbed soothing circles on his temples, and he seemed to be angry at... the loss of his shoes? Whether Sherlock had been dragged out of bed and hadn't time to put on his shoes, or if his kidnappers had taken them, Mycroft couldn't tell.

Sherlock was alone in the screen, Mycroft wondered where his kidnappers had gone. The detective rubbed his wrists absently, he seemed to have been bound at one point or another. He looked around him, turning in circles as he did so. He was in some sort of room for machinery. There were large metal pipes lining the walls and the lighting was red casting an ominous feel of the place. Sherlock's front locks were damp and stuck to his forehead. It was hot, wherever Sherlock was.

* * *

The second video file showed the presence of Lestrade in some dark hole. The poor sergeant was gnawing determinedly at the ropes binding his wrists together to free them. He was sitting at the bottom of what seemed to be a dry well of some sort with only a limited room to move in.

He finally freed himself and stood up, staring up at the camera watching him from the high lip of the well. "Hello?" He called out, first tentatively. Then, gaining a little more confidence. "Hello? Is anybody there?" He ran his hand over the smooth wall. There were no cracks or crevices with which to climb out with. He was trapped.

Then, there was a noise. Mycroft frowned in concentration. Was that... running water?

No sooner had he placed the sound when the edge of a bucket appeared in the corner of the screen and deposited a bucketful of water on the DS. Lestrade spluttered and gasped, beginning to shiver almost immediately. The water was freezing cold! "Hey! What the-...?" he coughed.

A few minutes later, another dousing. Mycroft speculated some kind of mechanism had been prepared to dump a bucketful of water into the well every few minutes. Which meant...

The water was rising fairly quickly, already pooling around Lestrade's ankles. Lestrade, seemed to realize the danger he was in and quickly began searching for a way out.

* * *

Sherlock strode through the metal jungle he had been deposited in, making notes of the machinery around him. There was a turbo generator in the distance, whirring like some metal dragon's sleepy sighs. Oh, that's why it was so hot. He casually strode over grated catwalk to approach a switchboard.

He reached out and grasped the metal covering to flip it open but quickly retracted his hand with a yelp. It was hot to his skin. He scrubbed his sleeve over his forehead to keep droplets of sweat from getting into his eyes. It was too hot in here, no matter how he speculated. Something was wrong with the machines. They would overheat and most likely explode with him inside.

He was swallowed in the stomach of a gigantic time bomb. He needed to turn the machines off.

* * *

"Shit!" Lestrade gasped when another serving of icy water was poured over the back of his head and shoulders. The water had risen to his thigh-level already. It wouldn't be long before the water rose over his head. Speaking of which... He looked up at the gaping mouth of the well. It was covered with a metal grate that seemed secured into place with a sturdy-looking chain. Even if he did manage not to freeze, even if he did manage to tread water long enough to reach the top of the well, he wouldn't be able to get out.

He'd drown.

He saw the bucket appear for a second and ducked another cold shower. He supported himself with both palms pressed onto opposite sides of his cylindrical prison. They were too smooth to climb, even if he pressed his back to one wall and braced himself on the other wall with his feet. He had tried.

There was nothing he could do but wait for help to come.

* * *

Mycroft helplessly watched both detectives struggle with their respective prisons. He had Anthea get a team to try and track the two down but neither held out much hope of them succeeding.

_**Let's play a game.**_

A message scrolled across his laptop screen from the detectives' captor.

_**Two trains. Two prisoners.**_

The footages of Sherlock and Lestrade disappeared and in their place, footages of two moving trains appeared, but nothing to identify which trains they were. Mycroft frowned.

_**These two trains are running on auto, their drivers and conductors are dead. The passengers are not yet aware of their predicament. In ten minutes, the two trains will collide head-on unless a switch is thrown.**_

Mycroft tightened his jaw. _Ten minutes. _That was far too little time to find out which trains were involved. Both trains would most-likely be moving according to schedule and nobody, except the dead staff, would know about it yet.

_**Option One: Choose to save the trains.**_

After the option had been delivered, the trains disappeared and Sherlock and Lestrade were back. Sherlock had wrapped his hands and bare feet up with some sort of cloth to keep from burning himself. Meanwhile, water had risen to about chest height for Lestrade.

_**Option Two: Choose to save the hostages.**_

Even from the glitchy footages of Sherlock, Mycroft could tell something was wrong with the machines Sherlock was tampering with. "Anthea." he called out, the woman was by his side in a moment. "Put out a few feelers. Inquire about malfunctioning powerhouses and such."

Anthea nodded and left.

Mycroft turned back to his screen. _Eight minutes._ The digital clock in the corners of the video footages counted down.

What did this terror want? Mycroft wondered. No demands had been made, no public announcements, nothing. What did he wish to accomplish?

_**I'm having fun. How about you? **_Scrolled across the screen.

_Oh. _Mycroft pressed his lips together as he leaned his elbows on his desk, entwining his fingers. So that's what this was all about? Entertainment? Powerplay?

He tapped a finger on the knuckle of the hand opposite. The lesser of two evils... There was no right or wrong answer to a decision like this. He was trapped... well - in a way - they all were. Only, he was the one calling the shots. Mycroft leaned forward and typed on his keyboard.

_**The second option, please.**_

* * *

"Ridiculous." Sherlock spat, swiping more sweat from his face with one hand as he fiddled with switches with the other. He could feel the hot metal flooring through the thin cloths wrapped around his feet. The palms of his hands were drenched with sweat and the fingertips of the makeshift gloves were burnt through.

"Aha!" Sherlock lunged for the switch that would turn the power off. The switch flipped easily.

The red lights flickered and went out with a resounding **_whump_** of power dying.

* * *

Simultaneously, the power also died in Mycroft's office, drenching him in oppressive darkness. He fumbled a bit for his phone and flipped it open. The dim light cast a pasty glow on his face. He called Anthea calmly. "Hello? Anthea? It's me. Forget about looking for Sherlock and consentrate all your assets on finding Sergeant Lestrade. I know where Sherlock is." He hung up with a sigh, vaguely hearing one of Sherlock's catchphrases, which would no doubt be appropriate for the situation, resounding in his head even in his brother's absence.

"Not good, Sherlock." he sighed in exasperation. "Bit not good."


	10. Breathing

Breathing

A minute of absolute darkness, then, the lights came on again in Mycroft's office, running on backup power for emergencies such as this. He sat perfectly still, refusing to be ruffled by the situation. His laptop flickered to life once again.

Sherlock was standing ramrod straight, listening to the generators drone softly, waiting for them to die. The lights were flickering as if they couldn't decide whether to give him a little illumination, or to just surrender him to the dark. Finally, they flickered and went out for good. Mycroft knew that Sherlock wouldn't be going anywhere. He'd have to feel where he was going and the metal would take a while to cool down. But, no matter, Mycroft knew where he was anyway. He sent a quick text to his men to pick Sherlock up.

But, he shouldn't stay in this depressing office. Without full power, his technical assets were half-crippled. He picked up his desk phone and requested his car be brought around. He had a few backup control-centers to escape to should this one come under fire. It had being a pain while the projects were underway, but now that they were needed, Mycroft was glad he had made that decision.

The car was waiting for him by the time he left his office. He casually slid into the back seat at his own pace and told his driver where to go. You almost couldn't tell that his younger brother, his younger brother's friend, two trains, and his main office had been taken hostage.

For all his driver knew, he could've been on his way home after a satisfying day at work. But, alas, that was not so. The laptop Mycroft brought with him showed that on-screen.

Mycroft had opened the lid and powered up the computer just in time to see the water close over Lestrade's head. The sergeant kicked out and began treading water steadily, spluttering indignantly all the while. It would take at least a half-hour before the water brought him up to the lip of the well. That is, if he could manage that long.

* * *

"Ow! Fuck!" Lestrade bit back another curse as he cradled his hand. He had been swimming in place for what seemed like an eternity, though it was more likely to be ten minutes, or so. He had space to move inside the well, but every so often he would drift off from the center of the well and scrape his hands on the side of the wall as he treaded. His fingers were already bruised and bloody.

Another bucketful of water splashed down on his head, pushing him under the surface of the water momentarily before he kicked up and resurfaced with a gasp. This was getting tiring, the constant dousing and dunking. Lestrade accidentally inhaled a small amount of water and choked, coughing violently.

"Bloody bastard!" he spat, though, not talking about anyone in particular. He said it just for the sake of saying something.

He looked up, it was safe to do so for the next few minutes before the next shower. The camera taping him seemed to mock him from the other side of the grating.

* * *

The two video files on Mycroft's computer switched from the two hostages to the trains again. Mycroft had almost forgotten about them in his annoyance with Sherlock's antics. Both footages panned out to show them both moving at a steady speed toward each other. One of the two thundered past a rail switch.

_**Dear me, Mister Holmes. How many people do you think will die today? **_The text scrolled hauntingly across his screen.

_Please be right, please be right... _Ran like a mantra in Mycroft's head. _Trust your skills and insticts. _He told himself, gripping the handle of his umbrella. If he was wrong... He didn't even want to contemplate the consequences.

The two trains barreled down the rail toward each other head-first and collided with a-... symphony of scratching plastic? Mycroft blinked in mild surprise. He had forseen that end to the crisis, but still, the simplicity of the criminal's illusion was laughable.

As the two trains derailed and clattered onto their sides with the hiss of protesting mechanisms, the video footages panned out to unveil the simple illusion. The trains were realistic, but fake. Mere toys. The background was a carefully constructed model laid out on what looked like a coffee table. Mycroft couldn't be entirely sure, the criminal made sure nothing but the table in question could be seen. Nothing to give his whereabouts away.

_**Correct choice!**_ The sound effect of someone getting an answer right on a quiz show trilled. _**Very clever! The trains are fake~! There's no way I would go through all that trouble in capturing them! **_Text scrolled across the screen, blinking cheerfully.

Mycroft deflated visibly and almost let out a sigh of relief.

_**Second round!**_

Hold that breath...

_**I didn't expect to have a third hostage, but we'll play it a new way! The more the merrier! **_Mycroft narrowed his eyes at his laptop screen. _Three hostages?_

_**There is a bomb under your seat. Get up, squirm, or shift, and I'll make things go 'boom'!**_

Ohhh, great. Mycroft's stomach sank into his feet.

_**You shouldn't have been in such a hurry to leave your office! Because of the urgency, your subordinates forwent the usual security check on the car and therefore missed the bomb you are currently sitting on. **_Did the criminal have to appear so cheerful about it? _**Also, you should turn off your phone and anything else that might trigger the bomb prematurely. Careful now!**_

"Jason." Mycroft called out calmly, careful not to lean toward the glass separating them as he turned off his phone. "Forget moving to safehouse beta, I need you to take me somewhere else." The driver didn't even blink as Mycroft explained the situation. He just listened quietly for his orders and nodded curtly.

"Right away, Sir." he replied crisply. Sometimes, Mycroft really did congratulate his choice in subordinates.

* * *

"Mister Holmes?" Sherlock whirled around when his name was called out. A team of task officers were in the process of fanning out over the powerplant in search for him. Their hollers echoed around the metal chamber like a mass of voices calling his name.

"Here!" he called back irrately.

Several powerful beams of light from torches arced along the catwalk and placed him. The officers were at his side in a moment. One held out a ringing mobile phone, Sherlock took the call. It was Mycroft's delightfully eccentric assistant, Anthea. _"Mister Holmes?"_ her voice carried cool and unhurried.

"You need my help." Sherlock declared astutely as soon as he picked up. "Figures that Mycroft can't handle the situation on his own. What's he done now?" he scoffed.

_"He is currently... occupied."_ Anthea defended her employer, Sherlock could almost hear the casual shrug of her shoulders. _"We need your help in finding Sergeant Lestrade."_

"Where's Mycroft?"

_"Sitting on a bomb."_

"..." For one glorious moment, everybody thought that Sherlock was at a loss for words. "...Isn't he always?"

And he hung up.

* * *

Blackwall Tunnel swallowed Mycroft's car a little later than he would've liked. Naturally, complaining would not be of a help in directing traffic away from his destination, so he did not. The darkness of the underground tunnel welcomed them like a spider would a fly. But Mycroft had no intention of dying here.

Of course, he wasn't a hundred percent sure that the bomb under his seat was a remote controlled one, and not a motion sensored one, but he was willing to take that chance. He tapped the glass separating him from his driver and motioned for him to pull over onto the side of the underground road. This was a dangerous risk in the dark of the tunnel, but his driver did so. He exited the driver's seat and opened the car door for Mycroft.

Mycroft pressed his lips together and calmly stepped out of the vehicle. Nothing. No explosion. No shock wave before being torn apart. Nothing. Didn't the criminal know that remote controlled explosions used satellite frequencies to detonate the bomb and that said frequencies more often than not, did not penetrate underground tunnels?

He brushed off imaginary dust off his sleeve and turned to his driver. "I have requested another car, fully secured, to be brought here." Jason informed him.

Mycroft smiled briefly. "Your initiative is admirable, thank you."

* * *

"He can't be far." Sherlock mused more to himself than to Anthea as they walked out of the powerplant. "They dropped him off only about fifteen minutes before we reached here." He looked around. "A dry well around here..." He frowned at the countryside with it's quaint little villages and old-fashioned technology. "...could be anywhere."

He shrugged as they entered a village and strode up to the first person he saw, who happened to be a woman cleaning tables outside a pub. "Excuse me." He plastered on a sheepish smile. "I'm hoping you can help me. See, a friend of mine and I must've had a little too much to drink last night and I lost something very important-... I- I don't remember much, but I think it was near a dry well, or something." He put on his most helpless expression. "_Please_, can you help me?"

The woman looked at him blankly. "Must be over a hundred wells 'round here. Half of 'em dry ones. Sorry, luv, can't help you there."

Sherlock sent a despairing look at Anthea.

* * *

"Ow! What the-...!" Lestrade rubbed his head ruefully where he had hit it against the grate when he resurfaced from the water. There was a mere foot or so between the surface of the water and the grate. If someone didn't come by soon... well, he'd be in a bit of trouble, wouldn't he?

_Yeah, understatement._

He tugged at the chain securing the grate to the well's mouth. Locked up tight. If he had the right tools, he could easily pick the lock. Unfortunately, his petty criminal days were past and his kidnappers had relieved him of everything in his pockets. He let out a sigh and gripped the grate with his fingers, keeping his head above water.

Once he thought about it, he should've taken his jacket off before being fully submerged. The thing was damned heavy! Too late now... He was exhausted and, quite honestly, bored of treading water, he surprised himself that he was able to for so long despite his aching muscles.

_Not much longer now..._

He shook the thought away violently. "Don't think like that, Gregory Lestrade." he growled sternly to himself. "You've been through worse and you're not dying here like this!" Another bucketful of water stole a few inches of air space from him. "Calm down, hold on." he chanted under his breath to keep himself from having a panic attack or something.

He clutched the grate with his fingertips desperately, tilting his head back and pressing his face to the small pocket of air left. "Hold on, now..."

The next bucket of water stole the last of his air. Water closed over his face and sent him into the darknes again.

* * *

"Have you found him?" Mycroft was asking even before his feet touched the ground as he stepped out of his car.

"Unfortunately, no." Anthea sighed. "I've got men fanned out to check the dry wells in the area. The villagers have been very kind in helping us find them." Which was a nice way of saying they had been gang-pressed into joining the search party.

Not that Mycroft could be bothered with such things at the moment... "Talk to the villagers. If a strange van had come through here, someone must've noticed."

Anthea nodded. "Already on it."

"As I thought you'd be."

Sherlock just rolled his eyes. Then, the laptop in Mycroft's hands drew his attention. He lunged forward, startling his brother. "Mycroft!" Sherlock barked, snatching away the laptop.

The well had overflowed with water without Mycroft noticing. Lestrade was gone.

No matter. Sherlock whirled around and stalked over to one of the villagers and shoved the laptop practically under his nose. "Where is this?" he demanded scathingly. "You know where this is! Tell me, now!"

The young man stuttered and stammered, finally deciding to point a shaky finger toward a wood just adjecent to the village. "Over there... about five minutes by car, just follow the trail."

Sherlock sniffed imperiously at the bumbling idiot and shoved the laptop into Anthea's hands. "Let's go."

They jumped into Mycroft's car and floored the gas pedal, accidentally flinging mud onto their reluctant helper. Tomorrow promised to be a day of many apologies.

Jason caught Mycroft's eye through the rear-view mirror and understood the unasked question. "We'll be there in three, Sir." He assured his employer.

* * *

The cottage, barely a stone wall and tin roof built around the well, was in a sad state like the men who had brought Lestrade here left in a hurry. There were tyre marks and bootprints in the mud outside and the door hung off it's rusted hinges. It was obviously empty. Whoever had been there wasn't there now.

Sherlock's passenger door was open and he was leaping out even before the car stopped moving. He rushed into the cottage, casting only a brief glance at the tyre marks and other evidence before haphazardly charging through it, smudging a clean bootprint into nothing. Mycroft, Anthea, and Jason were not far behind him.

A quick glance around the interior of the cottage found the well, Sherlock dashed to it, jangling the chain fruitlessly.

"Move aside!" Anthea barked, unholstering a hidden handgun. Sherlock looked surprised, but seeing Mycroft and Jason's unruffled expressions... Well, well, Anthea wasn't just an air-headed PA hiding behind a BlackBerry like she pretended to be, was she?

With three shots in quick succession, Anthea made little more than metal confetti of the chain. Sherlock grasped the grate and flung it off with a satisfying 'clang'. He, Mycroft, and Jason plunged their hands into the murky water, hoping that Lestrade hadn't already sunk to the bottom.

Mycroft's hand brushed something. "There!" he gasped, grasping at what he assumed to be the back of Lestrade's jacket and pulled, pressing the heels of his feet into the floor. With the combined strengths of the three men, Lestrade was raised to the water's surface like a water-soaked ragdoll.

They heaved him over the well's lip and laid him on the ground, trying to ignore the way his head lolled as he was jostled, or the alarming shade of blue his fingertips and lips were.

He wasn't breathing.

Sherlock and Mycroft exchanged a glance. "Well, I'm not about to give him the kiss of life." Sherlock remarked, expression blank.

"Oh, for God's sakes!" Anthea groaned, exasperated as she shoved both of them aside. "Jason, if you'll assist."

Anthea drew Lestrade's head back to clear his airway as Jason aligned his palms on Lestrade's chest and gave it a few quick compressions. When he pulled back, Anthea pinched Lestrade's nose shut and...

"I'm going to go get the blanket." Sherlock announced suddenly and disappeared, Mycroft watched him leave with slight mirth.

Then he turned back to the man lying prone on the ground. Jason was back to giving his chest compressions and suddenly Lestrade was convulsing, choking up water like a fountain. Anthea and Jason methodically turned him on his side as if they had rehearsed it many times. Mycroft had to admire their skill and professionalism.

Jason sat back on his heels and let out a sigh as he rubbed Lestrade's back soothingly. Anthea immediately stood up and left to get her phone, which she had left in the car. Someone had to tell Mycroft's men that the manhunt was done.

Torn between approaching to see if Lestrade was alright and giving him a moment's privacy to recover, Mycroft shuffled about uncomfortably nearby. Lestrade let out a weak whimper through his gasps and Mycroft kneeled by his head. "What was that, Lestrade?"

Lestrade's eyes flickered about halfway open and his arm shot out, grasping the lapel of Mycroft's suit jacket, the first thing he saw. Mycroft gasped in surprise but when he pulled back, he realized that Lestrade was once again unconscious. Mycroft tried to get him to let go of his jacket but Lestrade's grip was white-knuckled and desperate so he had given in.

He sat himself down crosslegged on the wet floor of the cottage and pulled the trembling man onto his lap. Jason softly cleared his throat and wisely informed Mycroft that he would attend to the car. Mycroft nodded at the man as he brushed a stray strand of hair from Lestrade's forehead, frowning at how cold he was. He clasped the cold hand that was fisted on his suit with both his warm ones.

That was how Sherlock found them.

Sherlock walked in, stopped dead in the doorway, gaping in shock. Then he smirked. "Right, well, he'll not need the blanket with you hanging all over him, will he?" he teased.

Mycroft rolled his eyes with an exasperated look. "Sherlock."

Sherlock stauntered over and draped the garish orange blanket over Lestrade with a surprising gentleness. "I know, I know." He pulled back, snapped a picture on his phone, and gave one last smile. "See you, then, brother."

And he was gone like nothing had happened.

Five minutes later, the paramedics arrived on the scene and carted Lestrade away to the hospital. Mycroft hadn't gone with them, he was busy tracking down the criminals responsible. But he glanced over when the paramedics passed by him.

An oxygen mask was pressed to Lestrade's pale face, misting up beautifully.

He turned back to Anthea, who was holding his laptop open for his scrutiny. The last message from the criminal was displayed across the screen in bold lettering. _**Spoil sport. **_Mycroft looked at his assistant grimly. "Now, what do we know about this... Jim Moriarty?"

* * *

When Sherlock returned to his flat he found a model set and two trains, derailed on their side, on his coffee table.


	11. Resigned

Resigned

When Lestrade woke up, he knew he was in the hospital. The bed was stiff and uncomfortable, the sheets were too starched, the air smelled like medicine, there were people in the ward with him... also, his wife was not present. Lestrade knew all this even before he had the strength to pry his eyes open.

When he did, Mycroft Holmes was looming over his bedside, expression impassive. "Woah! _Jesus_...!" Lestrade jerked despite his protesting muscles, too startled to care.

"Hardly." Mycroft's response was cool and crisp. "How do you feel, Sergeant?"

"Like I stayed the night at Sherlock's." Lestrade sighed sarcastically.

Mycroft inclined his head and shot him a reprimanding look a mother would be proud of. "Really now..."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Headache, sore, feels like I'm going to puke, and I have a cold." He listed off after a moment's contemplation.

"Seems he was telling the truth." Sherlock's voice snarked from the doorway.

"Sherlock." Lestrade and Mycroft exclaimed simultaneously. Lestrade sounding annoyed, Mycroft simply longsuffering, as per usual.

"Getting along, I see." Sherlock smirked tauntingly. Mycroft gripped his umbrella handle and didn't flush, really he didn't.

"Huh?" It never occured to either Holmes that Lestrade doesn't actually remember what he did. What he did being, making an utter fool of himself and practically hugging Mycroft bloody Holmes.

"You don't remember." Sherlock stated unintelligently. He looked at Mycroft. "He doesn't remember."

"I understood that part, Sherlock." Mycroft sighed. "There's really no need to bring it up again..."

"No, no! But I've got pictures!" Sherlock gleefully made his way fully into the room and fished out his phone when he was stopped by Mycroft's umbrella cutting off his passage and a dangerous look from his older brother that clearly stated: "Do not make me wrestle you for that phone, Sherlock, because I will." Sherlock deflated visibly and his hands dropped to his sides. "Fine."

Lestrade was still only half-awake and didn't notice the silent exchange.

Mycroft turned back to Lestrade. "My apologies, Sergeant. This is all my fault entirely."

It took Lestrade a moment to realize what Mycroft was talking about. The kidnapping. "Oh, well, as long as it doesn't happen again." Sherlock and Mycroft exchanged an uneasy glance. "Is it going to happen again?"

"Well..." Sherlock trailed off at Lestrade's angry look.

"I did try to warn you away from Sherlock." Mycroft pointed out. Sherlock had the good grace to look affronted by that.

"Really, Mycroft, I still don't see how that was necessary." He sounded like a child.

"Seeing as Sergeant Lestrade is still here, It really hadn't been any use, had it?" Mycroft agreed reluctantly.

"I'm still here, you know. Still listening." Lestrade rolled his eyes, sitting up and crossing his arms.

"What Mycroft is trying to say is: since you haven't yet run for the hills screaming bloody murder, people will assume that you're our... friend. Which really shouldn't be true, considering the constant agony we put each other through, but people _will_ make that incorrect assumption." Sherlock tried to explain.

Lestrade's brow furrowed. "'People', Sherlock? You'll have to be more specific."

"Criminals, terrorists, the occassional pissed-off CIA agent, and anybody else Holmeses tend to piss off... which is nearly everybody. They're going to try to get to me in order to get to Mycroft, and they're probably going to get to you to try to get to me, understand?" Sherlock specified impatiently.

"Sorry, I'm a bit slow. Why am I suddenly being dragged into all this?" Lestrade questioned sternly.

"Because you're too kind for your own good." Mycroft said loftily.

"Because you're an idiot." Sherlock translated bluntly despite Mycroft's warning glare.

Lestrade stared at them as if they'd both grown multiple heads but it wasn't anything unnatural... like he was already half-expecting that. He supposed he should be... angry? No, he brought this on himself. Scared? No, he already knew what kind of trouble Sherlock tended to dredge up. He sighed. No, he wasn't scared, he wasn't angry, in fact, he didn't feel much of anything. No, he was resigned to the matter.

I just got kidnapped. Fine, okay. I almost died. Still with you, go on. Two of the most brilliant minds on the planet are almost a hundred percent sure this is going to happen again. I know, annoying, isn't it? ...Wait, what? Yes, he was definitely resigned to his fate.

Mycroft and Sherlock watched his expressions carefully. They had a sort of bet going on between them. Mycroft thought Lestrade would immediately cut off all ties with them. Sherlock thought he'd try to slip away under the cover of darkness... well, that's what his college roommate tried to do. And neither seemed intent on losing the bet.

"Alright, fine." Lestrade shrugged his shoulders helplessly. "Thanks for the warning, I guess." He wrapped his blanket around himself for warmth as he threw his legs over the side of his bed. "Ugh, need to use the bathroom." And he pattered off, barefoot.

Sherlock and Mycroft stared at the now unoccupied bed. "Do we call that a draw?" Sherlock wondered absently.

"We call that a rare miracle, Sherlock." Mycroft shot back, turning away and fiddling with his phone. _Keep the surveilance on Gregory Lestrade. Looks like we're not getting rid of him so easily. And keep an eye on his proceedings, I'm afraid Lestrade is the kind of man that would try to sneak out of the hosptial before he recovers completely. -MH_

Sherlock groaned. "Does that mean I've still got a babysitter?"

Mycroft looked at him. "I'm afraid it does, Sherlock."

They exchanged a glance. "You knew he would stay, didn't you?" Sherlock stated.

"It had crossed my mind." Mycroft shrugged.

"How the Hell did _that _cross your mind?" Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

"I am resigned to the fact that Lestrade is just that sort of person." Mycroft sighed.

"The kind of person who unknowingly does everything in his power to annoy you?" His brother raised his eyebrows.

"A bit like you, but yes." Mycroft just lobbed back.

Just then, Lestrade returned. "Sergeant, I hope you will not feel resentment toward me if I kept an eye on you from now on." Mycroft said, deciding to be straightforward with the detective.

Lestrade scowled. "You already do."

"Stricter." Sherlock warned ominously.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "No."

"Sergeant..."

"Is now a good time to tell you I've been made 'Inspector'?"

Silence. "Congratulations are in order, I believe." Mycroft cleared his throat. Of course, he had already heard the news but did not say so.

Sherlock looked amazed. "Really? _You_, Lestrade? Of all the idiotic things Scotland Yard could do..."

"Sherlock, do shut up." That was Mycroft. Lestrade furrowed deep under his blanket and looked at them wryly.

"Both of you shut up. In fact, I'd prefer if you'd both leave. I need to sleep off a serious headache now." He grumbled before closing his eyes.

He vaguely remembered wondering, before he fell back asleep: if the Holmeses were not his friends, why were they the only ones visiting him in the hospital?

How the Hell did Mycroft coerce Sherlock to come?

And what happened to the criminals behind this whole nasty business?

Many things went through Lestrade's mind before it finally dropped off into unconsciousness. But, one of the last things he remembered before the world diminished into darkness: He'd have a long time to wonder about those things because the Holmeses wern't getting rid of him that easily.

And vice versa.


	12. Meeting

Meeting

The text was sent at two thirty in the morning. _You awake, Sherlock? -Lestrade_

Sherlock picked up his phone from his lounged stance on his couch. He glanced over the three-word text and rolled his eyes. _What do you want? -SH_

_Got you a case. Be at Baker St. in ten. Don't. Go. Anywhere. -Lestrade_

Sherlock snorted. It wasn't odd that Lestrade's cases and his experimentations overlapped. Sometimes the newly minted DI would show up at Sherlock's flat and find that the consulting detective was nowhere in sight and was not answering his phone. It had annoyed the man to no ends.

Ten minutes later, Lestrade's car pulled up and the detective's footsteps leapt quickly up the stairs leading to Sherlock's flat. Lestrade knocked on his front door sharply twice as he opened it, not even bothering to knock before entering. He made it look like one smooth motion, a skill that neither Holmes had mastered yet.

Sherlock, because he never had the decency to knock. And Mycroft, because he always waited respectully for some kind of response before letting himself in.

"Sherlock." Lestrade called out, poking his head in but not entering all the way.

Sherlock looked over at him from the sitting room. "How many?" Deaths, he meant. Who cared for pleasantries and small talk when he was bored?

"Hello to you, too." Lestrade scowled, looking a bit peeved. "And the answer's three."

"Interesting?" Sherlock mentally prepared a scathing comeback if Lestrade couldn't deliver an adequately intreguing case.

Lestrade's answer was neutral and vague. "Interesting enough." He had given up trying to explain the cases before Sherlock agreed to take them. His head disappeared from sight. Sherlock watched the empty doorway for a moment, wondering what the detective was up to. Then, Lestrade poked his head back in. "You coming, or what, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's eyebrows jumped. "You want me to go where?"

"Crime scene." was all Lestrade said before turning to leave again. "Get your coat."

Sherlock scrambled after Lestrade, tugging his coat on as he went. Inside the awaiting police vehicle was a woman, dark-skinned, expression pinched and annoyed. Stickler for the rules, doesn't like that her superior is getting outside help but respects him enough to trust his judgement, knows what she's doing but thinks she has something to prove, recently promoted, then? Not surprising, given that Lestrade must've wanted her on his new team. Sherlock sent her a painfully fake smile.

"Sherlock, Sergeant Sally Donovan." Lestrade introduced as he motioned for Sherlock to get into the back passenger seat. "Donovan, Sherlock Holmes."

"Who is this, Sir?" The woman, Donovan, asked. Sherlock decided to ignore the way the woman discreetly preened at being introduced as 'Sergeant'. Recent promotion was right. It seemed Sergeant Donovan was quite proud of her accomplishments.

"He's a specialist." Lestrade told her.

"Consultant." Sherlock threw in, just for good measure. He didn't much care for the way Donovan scowled at him. "Lestrade needs me to do your work, apparently, you're not cutting it." he smirked despite Lestrade's glare.

"I don't like this, Sir." Donovan said aside to Lestrade as she pulled the car away from the curb. "This is totally-..."

"Against regulations?" Lestrade sighed. "I know."

"This is really a-..." Sherlock cut her off this time.

"Bad idea? Yes. But too late now." Donovan looked just seconds away from either chewing off his ear, throwing him out of the car, or killing him.

Lestrade just rolled his eyes. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, Sherlock."

He explained the details of the case as they drove.

* * *

"Here now, Sherlock, you might want to go over the crime scene reports before you look over the crime scene..." Sherlock heard Lestrade say as they approached the crime scene.

He waved the DI off. "Don't be ridiculous, Lestrade. I observe the crime scene as it is, no second-hand report with biased reasoning is appreciated. You know how I work. Bend theory to fact, not fact to theory."

"Hey! What's going on here?" A particularly dislikable-looking man stomped over.

Sherlock looked him over. Forensics on the case, clumsy, cut himself shaving, doesn't actually have facial hair but wants it to appear more masculine... it's not going to work. He burned his finger on the toaster this morning, married, but had a fight with his wife, thus him making his own breakfast. Why the fight? He sniffed. Deoderant, same as Sergeant Donovan's, having an affair bcause apparently low IQs love company just as much as misery does. Conclusion: adulterer, rather incompetent at his job and lies about it blatantly, distracted from his work, vain, arrogant, and not worth his time.

"Anderson, this is Sherlock Holmes." Lestrade's voice shook him out of his musings. "I want him to look over the crime scene. Play nice, will you?" Seeing that as his cue, Sherlock got right down to his observations, ignoring the following arguement.

"Look over the crime scene, are you serious?" Anderson spluttered indignantly at the DI. "This goes against everything-..."

"Have you found the bust?" Sherlock suddenly interrupted.

Lestrade and Anderson turned nonplussed looks on him. "What?" Lestrade asked dumbly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "The bust! The plaster bust of Napoleon!" he exclaimed impatiently.

Anderson looked at Lestrade. "Is he for real?"

Lestrade ignored him. "How do you figure there's a bust of Napoleon involved?" he asked Sherlock patiently.

Sherlock groaned. "There's nothing tying the victims together! No victim type, no relations whatsoever! All except the fact that they've all owned a bust of Napoleon at one point or another." At Lestrade's look. "I wasn't just sitting in the back of that car listening to you drone on and on about nothing for the whole duration of the trip." He turned his phone toward them. "Morse Hudson, Dr. Barnicot, and now the very unfortunate Horace Harker. They all owned identical busts which, may I add, mysteriously disappeared from their flats on the day of their murder."

Lestrade looked dubious. "A Napoleon-hating lunatic, you think? It's a bit overkill, isn't it?"

"Oh, don't be stupid!" Sherlock scoffed and waltzed out of the crime scene. "He needed the light!" he called over his shoulder.

"'He needed the light', what does that even mean?" Anderson wondered, gaping after Sherlock.

"I don't know, but I need to find out." Lestrade sighed and went to follow Sherlock.

"He was right about you." Sherlock heard Donovan remark as he ducked under the tape.

"Who was right about what?" he questioned.

Donovan nodded in Lestrade's direction. "Warned us about you. Said you were rude, arrogant, but good at what you do." She tightened her jaw. "He also said not to punch you and, believe me, that's the only reason why I'm not going to."

Sherlock just smiled back. "Charming."

Lestrade caught up to them then. "So, up to explaining what you meant about the light, Sherlock?" he asked.

Sherlock nodded. "But before we get around to _why_ the killings happened, I want to know everything there is to know about the killer. Let's see the bodies next." He swept off. "Oh, and Sergeant Donovan!" he called over his shoulder. "You really should reconsider your choice of nighttime company!"

Donovan's vehement curses and indignant screeches chased the two detectives off the crime scene.

"Well," Sherlock smiled at Lestrade, "that didn't go so bad, did it?"

Lestrade just stared at him incredulously. "I don't even..." He rolled his eyes and threw his hands up. "Forget it."

* * *

Molly was pleasantly surprised to see that Lestrade had brought along a friend. In fact, she looked a bit starry-eyed at Sherlock. Probably fancied him. Poor dear. "Molly, the victims?" Lestrade reminded her when her mind wandered toward the handsome stranger.

"Oh! Yes! Sorry!" The pathologist floundered, flustered. She pulled back the sheet from the body. "It's-... we don't get many visitors that arn't policemen or, well, dead people, you know?" She let out a nervous giggle.

Sherlock sent her a slightly condescending look and resumed his observations in silence.

Molly visibly deflated at being blown off. "Well, um, do you want some coffee? I can go get-..."

"Molly, maybe not right now." Lestrade heavily hinted, vaguely gesturing to the body.

"Black, two sugars, please." Sherlock grunted, not bothing to turn to the two behind him as he sniffed at one of the victim's open wounds. "Does this place have a computer?"

"Um, upstairs." Molly pointed to the ceiling. "But Mike's using that-..."

"I'll be right there, then." And Sherlock was gone in a flash.

"-...Space."

Lestrade sent Molly an apologetic look. "Sorry about all this."

"Oh, don't worry about it." Molly tucked a strand of hair behind her ear bashfully.

Lestrade really did pity her.

* * *

Mike Stamford clearly didn't expect to meet Sherlock Holmes while printing out pamphlets for his upcoming medical lecture, but there he was. "Um," he cleared his throat. Sherlock looked at him. "I don't think you're supposed to be up here. I mean, only staff are allowed up here and I know all the staff... I don't know you."

Sherlock looked at him like he was some insect pinned under the spotlight. It was a very unnerving feeling indeed. Then he looked at the still-warm pamphlets in the doctor's hands. "Interesting." he murmured and moved to one of the computers.

Mike Stamford decided that he couldn't be bothered.

"So, what's your business up here?"

Sherlock merely looked up at the plump doctor. "Research on stolen jewels."

Mike just nodded and hummed in vague understanding. They both worked in silence and did not talk much after that.

* * *

The freshly promoted DCI Meadows merely narrowed his eyes at the lanky civilian in Lestrade's new office. He leaned in the open doorway and watched Sherlock attempt to explode something on Lestrade's desk as he waited for the DI to return from wherever he disappeared to.

"Bad idea, that." he remarked coolly. Sherlock whirled around at the sudden interruption. "That used to be my desk half-a-year ago before Lestrade finally claimed it." His voice was calm and casual, but the fierce protectiveness, though masterfully hidden, was evident.

Sherlock meekly dumped whatever he was doing on the floor.

"So, let me guess, you're next in asking why I'm here, and will throw a tantrum when you hear the answer?" Sherlock snarked.

Meadows raised an eyebrow in a way eerily similar to Mycroft's habit. "Nope. Lestrade's already warned everybody involved about you, Mister Holmes. I just came in to stop you from sabotaging Lestrade's desk and to tell you not to get my partner killed, alright?"

Then he turned and walked away.

Sherlock watched him leave. If he was so protective of a desk, how far would he go for a partner? He shivered. Mycroft would have a field day with that one.

Lestrade returned with two styrofoam cups of coffee and handed one to Sherlock. "So? What's the verdict?" he asked.

"Donovan dislikes me, Anderson's an idiot, and I think I can make some use of the pathologist." Sherlock said from behind his cup. "And your DCI reminds me of Mycroft."

Lestrade laughed. "Well, get used to it, Sherlock. You're going to work with these people from now on."

* * *

Mycroft studied Sherlock's new aqcuaintences and nodded to himself with grim approval. Cutting out Anderson, Lestrade had some pretty good connections.

"Anthea." he called out, not seeing his assistant, but knowing she was there hovering behind his chair. "Find everything we have on these people. I want to know everything there is to know about them."

Anthea must've been just a little psychic because the files were already in her hands and she was placing them on his desk even before he finished speaking.

Mycroft smiled at her approvingly. "A wonder, Anthea, as always."

"Naturally, Sir."


	13. Dangerous

Dangerous

"Well, this... was a bad idea."

Which was an understatement, really, considering the fact that Lestrade and Sherlock were currently teetering on the edge of a slanted roof... quite high off the ground... in the billowing wind... with nothing standing between them and a gruesome death but air.

"I told you, I wouldn't be out for five minutes." Sherlock grumbled, seemingly well at ease, if only he wasn't peering down at the far-off ground with a horrified fascination.

"I _told _you it was a bad idea!" Lestrade shouted back complainingly over the wind.

"Then why did you come out?" Sherlock spat.

"Because _somebody_ insisted on going out on the ledge where the last victim_ fell to his death _because he thought it might be a good idea!" Lestrade retorted hotly.

"I said it was for the case!" Sherlock defended himself.

"A bloody idiotic decision to make, Sherlock!"

They were half-standing, half-laying flat on the slanted roof's surface, pressing themselves against it to avoid being blown off by the outrageous wind. It hadn't been that bad when they had climbed out, but it was a different story when it came time to go back in. "You didn't have to come after me!" Sherlock pointed out.

"Bloody Hell, Sherlock! It's dangerous! And you don't have any protective gear!" Lestrade hollered back.

"Neither do you!" Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the sorry excuse of a belaying rope tied criss-crossed over Lestrade's torso.

Lestrade followed his gaze. "At least it's better than nothing! What the Hell were you thinking? Oh, wait, I forgot! You _wern't_ thinking, were you!" He shouted angrily.

"Oh, stop overreacting, Lestrade!" Sherlock scowled.

"I'm teetering on the edge of a very, very high up roof, trying not to be blown over to my instantaneous death by the raging wind, all because you were stupid enough to get up here in the first place! I don't think I'm overreacting at all, Sherlock!" Another strong gust of wind buffeted them, causing them to claw frantically at the roof for purchase.

"Well, then get a move on! The window's just ten yards to your right, Lestrade." Sherlock snapped at him. To Lestrade's perverse satisfaction, his face was a few shades whiter after that last blast of wind had threatened to throw them off the roof like a pair of marionettes with their strings cut.

"Alright! Alright! Don't rush me!" Lestrade took a deep breath and with a last, unwise glance downwards, braced himself for the arduous journey.

Sherlock watched him, eyebrow raised, unimpressed. "You're scared of heights."

"Dammit, Sherlock! Shut up!"

Slowly, carefully, they inched back toward the window they had climbed out of. Lestrade resisted the urge to look at his watch. Seeing how long they had been up there really wasn't something he wanted to think about right now. Especially since he saw Mycroft's car pull up on the ground far beneath them at least five minutes ago.

"Look at him. First time Mycroft looks so small." Sherlock had remarked dryly and was rewarded by a hysterical giggle from Lestrade with a vehement, 'Shut up! Shut up! Don't make me laugh!'

But it was true, Mycroft looked about three inches tall... Oh, no. It's never a good idea to look down when everyone has a very high expectation of you falling. He heard sirens in the distance but refused to look down again, instead, craning his head to the side to keep his eyes on his feet, or the window he was aiming to reach.

"I got it, though." Sherlock's voice barely carried over the wind's howl.

"Got what?" Lestrade didn't even bother looking at him.

"There was something stuck under one of the roof's tiles. I think all the victims who died here were trying to get it and fell off the roof to their deaths."

"I don't bloody care, Sherlock!" Lestrade exclaimed, appalled. "And, next time, you might want to give me that little tidbit of trivia _after_ we're safe!"

"It's your case! You should care! And timing has nothing to do with it!"

"Three able-bodied men die trying to get that whatever-thing and you thought it might be a good idea to try and get it yourself? For a genius, you're really, really dumb!"

They were screaming at each other over the wind, by now, practically high (no pun intended) on adrenaline. Finally, Lestrade reached the window and grasped the sil with clammy palms. He pushed himself up to sit on the window sil and was about to curl into the room when it happened.

A truely malicious blast of wind accosted Sherlock just as he reached out his hand to clasp onto the window like Lestrade had just done. The wind shoved him back causing his fingers to miss the window by inches. And, without something to hold onto with said hand, to anchor him, Sherlock's balance wavered and threw him out into open air.

Sherlock vaguely heard Lestrade's horrified yell as weightlessness captured him a second before his body jerked to a halt momentarily before being pulled back. The sheer force of the wind weighed him down as if he was in water, but he found himself launching backward. He felt something hit his lower back hard before practically somersulting backward onto solid ground.

Wait, solid ground?

It took a few moments for Sherlock's senses to return to him and to catch his breath and he looked over. Lestrade was lying sprawled on his back, half under Sherlock's body, wide eyes staring unseeingly up at the ceiling.

Sherlock's brain filled in the blank details for him. He was tipping over thin air, overbalanced, Lestrade had been sitting on the window sil. He narrowed his eyes in concentration. He was falling, Lestrade jumped off his seat, one hand gripping the window sil and the other snagged Sherlock's arm. That had been the force that jerked Sherlock. Then, throwing his full weight back into the window, he and Sherlock had tumbled to safety.

Lestrade blinked once... twice... thrice... "Mycroft... owes me a coffeetable." His voice was gravely from all the shouting they had been doing.

Sherlock stared at him, bewildered. "What?"

"Woke up at about three o'clock in the morning because I heard a noise." Lestrade let out a breathy chuckle as he told his little anecdote. "Walked into the sitting room to see about four black-ops-looking blokes standing around my couches arresting some poor sod. I suppose they were under orders to be in and out without making a sound but they broke my coffeetable."

Sherlock laughed. "What happened then?"

"I stared at them, they stared right back with those creepy night-vision goggles that make them look like aliens, the man they were arresting whimpered, and I closed the door, went stright back to bed and tried to convince myself it didn't happen. I don't know why I told you that, but it occurred to me just now that you might want to know."

The two fell into a fit of hysterical laughter. Considering the circumstances, anything would've been funny for them in that situation.

"Oh, did I ever tell you about that assassin from Turkey?"

"Dunno, but it sounds like it would have a great punchline." Lestrade finally squirmed out from under Sherlock's arm and sat up with a groan. "We should get down to ground-level first, though ." He tried to get to his feet but they buckled under him like spaghetti noodles made out of jelly.

Sherlock just sat back and laughed at him.

"Seriously, though, Sherlock..." They could already hear voices and footsteps echoing up toward them.

The door burst open and at least half-a-dozen paramedics swarmed them, draping orange shock blankets over their shoulders. Now it was Lestrade's turn to laugh at Sherlock. "I look ridiculous, I get it." Sherlock scowled. "You're not looking any better."

Mycroft followed shortly on the paramedics' heels and Lestrade had to quip. "You came up yourself, Mister Holmes?" He even had the audacity to sound shocked.

Mycroft glared at the two giggling imbecils before him. "I sincerely hope you two have a good explanation as to why you had tried to kill yourself?"

The smiles immediately dropped and the two detectives looked suitably berated. Lestrade pointed at Sherlock. "His fault."

Sherlock snorted back a guffaw and buried his mouth with his blanketed fist. Mycroft turned an icy look onto his younger brother and Sherlock quickly stopped laughing. "He's right... it is kind of my fault. But I didn't ask Lestrade to follow me."

Now the icy looked alighted on Lestrade. "He was going to get himself killed."

The gaze returned to Sherlock. "I was helping Lestrade solve his case."

Mycroft looked at Lestrade, who winced under his gaze. "You asked me to involve him on cases."

Sherlock's face lit up at the incriminating statement and dove for the opening provided. "So! We all admit we are all at fault here, yes? I'm going home now." He jumped up and swept past Mycroft before the man could stop him.

When he was gone, Mycroft turned an apologetic look toward Lestrade. "My brother does a many insane thing, Inspector. You really shouldn't have felt obligated to follow him up there." He nodded toward the open window. "You might've died."

Lestrade sighed in exhaustion. "I know."

"May I take that to say you won't do it again?" Mycroft asked him.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "Nope. It's my job. Protect the civilians."

Mycroft looked exasperated. "Inspector, I don't dispatch teams of task forces to apprehend men who wish to kill you in your sleep just for you to die because of my younger brother's idiocy." Lestrade opened his mouth but Mycroft carried on. "And, while I appreciate the care you've shown for Sherlock, this..." He glanced grimly around at their surroundings. "...Is no way for him to repay you."

Lestrade gaped wordlessly, shocked. Then, he closed his mouth. "Well... maybe you could convince him to water down the experiments and such? That would help."

Mycroft sighed. "I've been trying... for the last thirty years of his life."

"Maybe you could try harder." Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe he'll actually listen this time since he did, kind of, almost fall off a roof and die..."

Mycroft looked at Lestrade's thoughtful expression. "I can't even begin to comprehend your faith in Sherlock, Inspector." he declared, resigned. "But I suggest you be careful with him. He's dangerous."

Lestrade raised his eyebrow at him. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"What do you suppose it means?" Mycroft asked him before turning to walk away. "And, on another note, I have taken the liberty of replacing your coffeetable. My apologies for the inconvinence."

With a little swish of his umbrella, Mycroft left.


	14. Tolerating

Tolerating

"He threatened you, didn't he?" Sherlock's bland, trying-not-to-sound-interested voice shook Lestrade out of his sleepy silence.

There was a soft snuffle, a brief flicker of the eyelids, then Lestrade shot up from his slouch in the armchair, rubbing the back of his hand over his mouth. "Shit! I fell asleep! Did I drool?"

"No. And you're avoiding the question." Sherlock glared.

"Sorry, what was that?" Lestrade yawned, settling himself comfortably again.

"Mycroft. Did. He. Threaten. You?" Sherlock spoke as though Lestrade was a dumb five-year-old.

"What? No! Why would he do that?" Lestrade narrowed his eyes in all-serious-morbid-curiosity. "Sherlock, ...if you or your brother have some deep, dark secret I should know about..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No."

"...Because I'd believe vampirism right about now." Lestrade carried on. "Seriously, Sherlock. Pale, skinny, intelligent, no sleep, ... you eat when I'm not forcing food down your throat, arn't you?"

Sherlock just regarded him with a scathing look and didn't answer. Unperturbed, Lestrade continued. "And Mycroft. Omniscient, bordering on psychic, secretive, runs the government - a feat that, I think, no man under the age of fifty should be able to achieve - and really, seriously... Sherlock, what is with that umbrella?"

Sherlock looked unimpressed. "Your attempts at distraction are pathetic." he stated bluntly.

Lestrade scratched his head. "Do you really think so?"

"Of course I do. I wouldn't expect anything more." Sherlock crossed his arms. "Back to the matter at hand. He threatened you."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "I said he didn't."

"Whatever he said that you may not have thought of as threatening, I really think it was." Sherlock shot back.

"He said to be careful."

"See! I told you! How is that not a threat?" Sherlock exclaimed, jumping up almost indignantly on his sofa.

"About you, Sherlock." Lestrade clarified firmly.

Sherlock froze. "What?"

"Mycroft said to be careful with you." Lestrade repeated. "He said you were dangerous."

For a split second, hurt flashed in Sherlock's quicksilver eyes before being overwhelmed by an immense anger. "Who-... who does he think he is!" The consulting detective bellowed, stomping his bare foot on the sofa's soft surface, violent in a strangely silent way.

"You know he's just worried about you, right?" Lestrade droned, having grown quite accustomed to the Holmes's sibling rivalry.

Sherlock stared at him incredulously. "My god, Lestrade. This is all going over your head, isn't it? Typical!" He leapt down from his heightened perch and began pacing around.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Alright, then explain it to me."

"No. Too much work. Tedious. Dull." Sherlock fired off a-mile-a-minute, striding in circles 'round and 'round the sitting room.

"Like a teddy bear." Lestrade remarked dryly, eyebrow raised at him.

That got Sherlock to stop. "Huh? What's like a teddy bear?" Figures he was only half-listening.

"You." Lestrade grinned mischeviously.

Sherlock seemed to mull over that thought for all of two seconds. "Ridiculous. Why am I like a black bear cub that President Theodore Roosevelt ultimately instructed to be put to death?"

Lestrade blinked in surprise. "Nevermind."

"No. You started it, now you have to finish it."

"Why should I have to finish it?" Lestrade challenged.

"Because I need to know if me being like a teddy bear is somehow supposed to be amusing like your voice indicated, or if you're joking darkly about my future demise at the instruction of an American President, because I'm not sure if Mycroft's power stretches far enough to put a stop to that."

Lestrade raised his hands in a calming way. "No, it's a children's rhyme. And, just-... just don't piss off any Presidents, alright?"

Sherlock shrugged and resumed pacing.

"And, while we're on the subject of pissing people off, Sherlock-..." Lestrade continued. "...Don't do it."

"Impossible."

"I'm not saying be all sunshine and smiles, Sherlock - because that'll be downright weird. I'm just saying I'd feel a bit better if you didn't constantly collect death threats from people who've only known you for five minutes." Lestrade told him.

"Too much work."

"Just try... please?" Lestrade asked earnestly.

"You still adamant about Mycroft not threatening you? Because you sound threatened." Sherlock remarked.

"For the last time, Mycroft Holmes threatened me in no way!" Lestrade exclaimed, exasperated. "It just-... you know what? Forget it."

Sherlock continued pacing. "You know he's only doing it because he's jealous." He said.

Lestrade looked up at him. "What?"

"He's jealous because everybody who sticks with him is being paid for it, and yet you're here without profit. He's just an annoying loner like that." Funny, for every five minutes that passed, Sherlock sounded younger and younger. Lestrade imagined what it must've been like when the Holmes siblings were children.

_'Mummy! Mycroft stepped on my toys because he's jealous! He said it was an accident but it wasn't!'_

_'Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock, there's no evidence to solidify your accusations.'_

_'That's because you erased all the evidence!'_

_'There's no way you can prove that.'_

_'I can!'_

_'I'd like to see you try.'_

Lestrade couldn't help but smirk at the mental image. "Right, okay. So your brother's throwing a British-Government-sized tantrum because he doesn't have any friends, I can live with that."

"Why?" Sherlock wondered aloud, "Why does he always to that? Poking his nose into my business."

Lestrade shrugged. "Maybe he's just testing the people you're with? I mean, if someone couldn't handle his kidnappings and cryptic remarks, I don't think they'd stand a chance with that body-in-the-tub routine of yours."

Sherlock scoffed. "Half a body in the tub, Lestrade. _Half!"_

"That makes it even worse." Lestrade pointed out. "Look, Sherlock, he worries about you, worries about the people who talk to you. He just wants to make sure you're not accidentally surrounding yourself with chainsaw murderers, or something. Okay?"

Sherlock looked confused. "Why would I do something so stupid like surround myself with chainsaw murderers?"

"That's not the point." Lestrade sighed. "The point is that Mycroft's not going to stop worrying and poking about in businesses he has no right to. It's just how he is... kind of like the way you attract trouble. I mean, come on. The man tolerates the inconvenience of bailing you out of jail every other week and covering your arse when you infiltrate military bases. The least you can do is tolerate the fact that he's always keeping an eye on you. Think about it this way: if Mycroft doesn't know where you are and who you're with, he won't know where to bail you out of, or who he might have to kill for trying to hurt you. Okay?"

Sherlock scowled. "I can look after myself, thank you very much."

"You're very welcome, Sherlock." Lestrade just responded sarcastically. Then, his phone rang. "Lestrade. Okay... where? Right... I'll be right there." He hung up. "That was Donovan. Got to go, then." He nodded with a slight smile and left.

Sherlock fished out his own phone.

_What did you say to Lestrade? -SH_

_I merely voiced my concerns for his safety. What seems to be the problem? -MH_

_He's completely misreading the situation. He thinks you're worried about me. How he came to that conclusion is beyond me. -SH_

_But, it is also the truth. -MH_

_So what's the deal with trying to scare him off? -SH_

Mycroft did not respond for a whole five minutes.

_He is too useful to lose, Sherlock. I doubt you'd find another DI who will tolerate you. Try not to get him killed, will you? -MH_

_Well, that really didn't answer my question. -SH_

_I would rather he left you, than have him killed because of your idiocy. -MH_

_...Good God. You. Not Mycroft. Who are you? -SH_

_Hilarious, Sherlock. -MH_

_You've never cared before. Not even that time when I accidentally poisoned my flatmate. -SH_

_Oh, no... It's Lestrade, isn't it? -SH_

_Well, of course it's Lestrade. Isn't that the whole point of the conversation? -MH_

_Maybe I should've been scaring him away from you! -SH_

_Sherlock, don't be ridiculous. -MH_

_You like him! My idiotic, prat of a brother fancies the copper! -SH_

_I've just had a lecture in the finer points of toleration, Mycroft. If I must suffer, you must suffer with me! -SH_

Sum it to say, Mycroft did not respond to a single one of the texts Sherlock sent to him for the next week and ignored the request for bail from the Yard. Sherlock, in turn, decided that testing various excecution methods on himself was a waste of time. Lestrade convinced Molly to let him use a few cadavers from the morgue for his experimentations.

Unfortunately, New Scotland Yard still had difficulty coping with the arrangement.


	15. Friendly

Friendly

It wasn't everyday that Mycroft Holmes's morning started by being roused from sleep by a text. He sleepily groped the nightstand for his vibrating phone and with a protesting whimper, flicked it on.

_I need to talk to you. When do you have time? -Lestrade_

Mycroft blinked, rubbed his eyes, and squinted. The message stayed the same. Mycroft only slept for about an average of four hours a day. So, either Lestrade had crazy-good timing, or he just hated Mycroft.

More importantly, why was he still awake at four in the morning?

_Twelve. I'll pick you up. -MH_

Mycroft yawned and buried his face in his pillow again, not even bothering to replace his phone on the nightstand.

* * *

"Oh, hello, Mister Holmes." Lestrade grunted when he left his office to find Mycroft's car parked just outside on the curb.

Mycroft nodded back politely. "Good afternoon, Inspector."

The car's passenger door opened automatically and let Lestrade in. The copper never did get it. Why doesn't Mycroft just open the door himself? Trivial musings aside, he clambered in beside Mycroft and the car languidly rolled off into the street.

"So..." Lestrade wasn't sure on how to address the current problem. "...I hear you're not on speaking terms with Sherlock recently... well, more so than usual."

The muscles surrounding Mycroft's eyes twitched almost imperceptively and was quickly smoothed over. That spoke to Lestrade's sharp senses like a full-out scowl. "Oh? Has Sherlock said something of that context?" Mycroft asked coolly.

"No..." Lestrade dragged out the vowel thoughtfully. "Not in so many words, no. But... well, you not bailing Sherlock out of jail was a bit of a giveaway."

"Ah..." Mycroft pursed his lips.

"Uh, huh. I asked Sherlock what was up..." Mycroft's eyes jumped to him in near alarm. "...but he told me to ask you."

"Oh..." Mycroft made sure the relief didn't reach further than his brain.

"Yeah. So..." Lestrade gestured that it was Mycroft's turn to speak. "Here I am, asking you."

Mycroft sighed. "First of all, Inspector, I must apologize for your inconvenience."

"No problem." Lestrade waved him off.

"Second of all, Sherlock had... let us say, intruded on a classified matter."

"And letting him languish in a cell is your payback?" Lestrade chuckled knowingly.

Mycroft tilted his head with a resigned expression.

"Alright. So Sherlock's done a bad thing, you're punishing him, and as usual, he doesn't understand what he did wrong so he's blaming you?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "As usual." he agreed.

"Right..." Lestrade nodded. "So, um, you'll bail him out next time, right? Because he's pissing the hell out of the officers down there. There's been a lot of complaints."

Mycroft's expression changed so suddenly from exasperated to apologetic that Lestrade worried his facial muscles would suffer some kind of whiplash. "I do apologize, Inspector."

Lestrade held up his hands. "It's alright, Mister Holmes. I mean, it's Sherlock, what can you do?"

They smiled at each other, a silent understanding between them.

"Have you eaten, Inspector?" Mycroft asked suddenly.

"Uh, no. I just got freed from my desk when I came down." Lestrade chuckled sheepishly.

Mycroft smiled back sympathetically. He knew the feeling. "Excellent. Well, I was just on my way to lunch... would you like to accompany me?"

Lestrade shrugged casually. "I'd like that, yeah."

They stopped at a small, decent restaurant down the street from the Yard, a quiet spot without many customers. Lestrade was a regular there, he'd usually occupy a small table near the back of the restaurant with a few casefiles when he got sick of seeing his office walls or if Anderson and Donovan were constantly complaining about Sherlock in his ear.

"Hello! Always glad to see you, Lestrade!" One of the two waiters, a short, stocky man, called out, waving cheerfully at them.

Lestrade waved back. "Do you want your usual table?" The other, a leggy blonde, grinned. "Or... something more romantic?" She glanced at Mycroft appraisingly.

"Neither." Lestrade laughed. "How about that open table by the window?" He pointed. It was a very pleasant spot, Mycroft had to admit. Not to loud, not too bright, and a light breeze wafted in.

The blonde just smiled wickedly at them. "Hey, Jonah, wasn't that spot reserved for couples?" she teased.

"She's joking." The male waiter, Jonah, assured Mycroft warmly as he led them to the table in question. "There's no such thing as a 'couple's booth' here."

He poured them both glasses of iced water and left them to contemplate their lunch.

"Quite the pair." Mycroft remarked, eyebrows quirking in amusement as he watched the two waiters. "I think I'll have a salad."

"That it? I think I'll have the pasta. And yeah, Jonah and Sandy are adoptive siblings. Raised by the owner of this place, Matthews." Lestrade told him, waving Sandy over. "He has a habit of picking up strays."

"Which explains why Greg likes this place so much." Sandy smiled affectionately. "Your order?"

"Uh, pasta and a salad." Lestrade smiled at her.

"Okay, and what're you having?" Sandy turned to Mycroft.

"Er..."

"Ah, that's all, Sandy, thanks." Lestrade sent the woman his most disarming smile.

Sandy and he exchanged a glance. "Oh, okay then!" She reverted to all smiles.

"Oh, I'll have a cup of tea with that, if that's alright." Mycroft added on a whim.

"Orange juice for me!" Lestrade chimed in cheerfully.

A hint of a smile played on Sandy's mouth. "Okay gentlemen! Hold on to your seats and be ready to be dazzled 'cause momma's going to get busy!" With that, she swept off toward the kitchen, swaying her hips a little.

Lestrade and Mycroft watched her leave. "That could've been Sherlock, gone wrong." Lestrade remarked, deadpanned.

Mycroft smiled and held back a chuckle.

* * *

"Are they always like this?" Mycroft asked as he delicately folded a leaf of lettuce around of piece of chicken breast and placed it in his mouth. It seemed like Sandy had made an effort to make a salad into a main dish.

"Hm?" Lestrade looked at him from over his mouth-watering pasta. "Yeah. They have this infinite friendliness and acceptance of anything and anybody who come here to eat. And that includes the random cats, dogs, and other animal patrons."

"Silver foxes are also welcome." Jonah quipped as he poured Lestrade a cup of coffee. "This one broke a window to get in." He pointed at Lestrade with a snicker.

"Oi! I was legitimately tackled into that window by a suspect!" Lestrade whined. "It bloody hurt, too!"

"We make it a point to look past the first impressions." Jonah smiled indulgently and left.

It was highly unnerving for Mycroft, being surrounded by so many friendly, relaxed strangers. It was not something a government agent like him was accustomed to.

"You okay, Mister Holmes?" Lestrade asked him, seeing his slightly tense expression.

Mycroft almost jumped. "Ah, yes. Forgive me, my mind must've wandered."

Lestrade smiled at him. "Classified?"

Mycroft sighed back melodramatically. "Of the most secretive kind."

* * *

"Well," Lestrade sighed when they had both finished their lunches. "we should get going, shouldn't we?"

Mycroft checked his wristwatch and was surprised at how time had flown by. "Yes, I'm afraid we should." He lowered his hand and smiled at Lestrade. "I had a most pleasant time, Inspector."

"So did I." Lestrade smiled as they stood and shook hands. "Please, call me Greg."

"Very well, ...Gregory." Lestrade snorted, rolling his eyes. "Call me Mycroft."

Lestrade nodded. "Well, Mycroft, see you sometime."

They went their separate ways.

Sandy looked at Jonah. "We are so designating that table as the 'couple's booth'."

"Oh, don't be daft!"

"...No seriously."

"No."


	16. Questioning

Questioning

Lestrade would be lying if he hadn't heard the whispers around the water cooler. 'I was abducted by aliens!' More and more officers were beginning to lose nerve over the prank.

Fucking Dimmock.

Lestrade didn't know where the prank had budded and bloomed from, but he suspected Dimmock. He always suspected Dimmock.

Finally, he rolled his eyes, crossed his arms, and sat himself down on Dimmock's desk at lunch break. "So, what's this I hear about alien abductions? Who do I have to arrest?"

Dimmock looked up at him in slight surprise, then he lit up. "Isn't it great? I can't believe people actually believe that sort of thing exists!" He laughed. "I mean, I'm a fan of Doctor Who and all, but..." He shrugged.

Lestrade narrowed his eyes. "So it wasn't you who started the bloody thing?"

Dimmock's eyes widened and he shook his head innocently. "I swear, not this time!"

"'Not this time', eh?" Lestrade grunted, raising an eyebrow. "No comment about the ghost sightings last Christmas?"

Dimmock gaped like a fish on dry land. Satisfied, Lestrade turned and stalked off. He'd get to the bottom of this whole ridiculous business!

"Donovan." Lestrade leaned his hip against Donovan's desk as the woman tore open her pack of sandwiches with all the grace of a neanderthal. He raised his eyebrow as his sergeant sent him a morose look. "Uh, are you okay?"

Donovan narrowed her eyes at him, body tense, shoulders stiff as stone. "No." Short, clipped responses. Okay, he might be able to work his way around it.

"Ooookay. You want to talk about what happened?" As if just realizing his lack of information, he added, "What _did_ happen?"

Donovan looked from him, to her sandwiches, and back. Then promptly tossed her lunch onto her desk with an exasperated sigh. "You know what? Sod this. I'm beginning to think there's something behind that 'alien abduction' rumour."

Lestrade raised his eyebrows dubiously. Donovan scowled right back at him. "...Right. What made you think that?"

Donovan rolled her eyes and tightened her jaw as she frowned. "I mean, being drugged, sterile white cells, muffled voices, random questions, hazmat suits and all."

Lestrade's jaw dropped. "Wait-...! What-...? I don't even-..."

Now it was Donovan's turn to raise her eyebrow at him. "Exactly."

"Christ, are you okay?"

"Yeah, other than the questioning and the intense scare. I'm fine, Sir." Donovan shrugged.

"Like, fine-fine? Or, 'I'm not really fine, but I will say I am' fine?" Lestrade demanded sternly.

Donovan sighed with a slight smile. "Fine-fine."

"Good." They sat in silence, Donovan thoughtful, and Lestrade shocked. Then, they exchanged a look. "Should we get around to questioning the witnesses?" Lestrade suggested.

"Was about to say the same, Sir."

* * *

After a few days, Lestrade narrowed the 'alien abduction' victims down to the people he saw almost everyday. Donovan, who recounted a tale of white holding cells and questioning by beings in hazmat suits.

Anderson, who would not come out of hiding in his oh-so-secure fort of blankets in his bed long enough to talk to them.

The Superintendant had also been abducted and was furiously putting a team on the case. Even the friendly young officer that manned the front desk had had a visit.

DCI Meadows just shrugged and told Lestrade he was taken to what seemed to be some sort of club in which speaking and noises were not allowed.

And he was questioned by a man in a three-piece suit with copper-coloured hair, a plummy voice, and a vocabulary that would thrill an aristocrat.

Lestrade just narrowed his eyes at his superior. "Are you kidding me?" DCI Meadows just shook his head.

Lestrade scowled and cursed under his breath as he stomped off.

* * *

"You-...you-...!" Lestrade spluttered indignantly into his phone in the safety of his office. "Mycroft Holmes, I hope you've got a good reason for kidnapping my officers!"

There was a slightly melodic laugh from the other end. _"Have no fear, Gregory, I merely wished to meet with them, to see what they were like. What kind of people they are."_

"You couldn't have scheduled a visit? Popped in at the office for a little chat? But, no! You have to go kidnap them!" If Lestrade was any less of a man, he would be stomping his foot on the ground like a child.

_"You will forgive me, I could not resist."_ Lestrade could hear the smile in Mycroft's voice. _"I had originally intended to frighten only your forensics officer, Anderson, for his incompetance but he was so amusing that I wondered what Sergeant Donovan's reaction would be like, and so on."_

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Don't you think 'alien abductions' were a little overboard?"

_"Alien abductions? I was imagining something closer to scientific human experiments. Is that what Anderson was screeching about?"_ Mycroft seemed slightly enlightened.

Lestrade just sighed and shook his head. "So, why the change in MO with Meadows?"

_"DCI Meadows is... a decent character. One who I would find most fufilling on one of my teams."_ Mycroft said. It was as close as one would get to making Mycroft admit that he respected the man.

"Oh, okay." Lestrade shrugged. "So, find out anything interesting in your interrogations?"

_"Ah, yes. Anderson is stupid, incompetant, and a coward. I could not get a single coherent word out of him. Your sergeant, Donovan, is admirable... for a mindless lackey. But in her line of work, I guess it is necessary. She is ambitious and, if she is clever about her assets, she may go far. I can, but will not comment on anybody else."_ Mycroft sounded like he was reading off a report.

"Oh, come on! Not even a little bit about Meadows?" Lestrade grinned.

_"I doubt that would be wise."_ Mycroft sniffed imperiously.

Lestrade just laughed. "Well, okay. I'll forgive you for kidnapping my officers this time. Just don't do it again!"

_"I assure you, I will not."_

"So..." Lestrade prompted uneasily. "...what's your verdict on my team?"

Silence. _"I think..."_ Mycroft seemed to contemplate his words carefully. _"I think you are a very capable man to handle them, Inspector."_

Lestrade just smiled proudly. "They're a nightmare, arn't they?"

_"Much like their DI, apparently."_ Mycroft responded coolly.

"I'll take that as a compliment."

_"If you must."_


	17. Suspicious

Suspicious

_He hasn't texted. - SH_

Mycroft smiled thinly at the Prime Minister. "If you will excuse me, David." The head of Her Majesty's Government waved him off magnimoniously, too accustomed to the mysterious communications of his special adviser.

Mycroft stepped away and tapped curiously at his phone. _What is it, Sherlock? I'm busy. -MH_

_Lestrade. There's an intreguing case on the news but he's not coming with anything. -SH_

_It may not even be his case. Stop texting for trivial reasons. -MH_

_His face is printed all over the pages. -SH_

Mycroft rolled his eyes. _Well then, go and sulk at the revelation that maybe Lestrade doesn't need you all the time. -MH_

_He does. -SH_

_Quiet. I'm working. -MH_

Mycroft turned, sliding his phone back into his pocket. "Now, where were we?"

* * *

Shockingly enough, the call-to-arms came in from Sally Donovan.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock demanded petulantly, crossing his arms and glaring at the woman standing awkardly in his sitting room.

"Lestrade sent me." The sergeant told him uneasily.

Sherlock's eyes lit up. "Finally! Where is Lestrade?"

Donovan fidgeted. "He's busy. He told me to get you and handle the case that was on the telly the other day. Said we'd need your help."

"But where is Lestrade?" Sherlock repeated, more firmly this time. "I won't tolerate working with any other idiot."

Donovan rolled her eyes and sighed, but her jaw was tense. "He's working a different case."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "What case?"

"It's none of your business." Donovan spat. "Are you coming? If you're not, I'm leaving."

Sherlock peeled himself off his sofa and snatched up his jacket, pulling it around his shoulders with a dramatic swish. "For God's sakes, don't talk. We're going to the Yard."

* * *

_Lestrade's working cold cases. Donovan's honestly starting to worry about him. Something's going on. -SH_

_I hardly think that's any of our business, Sherlock. -MH_

* * *

_Lestrade hasn't come in to work today. -SH_

_And what, may I ask, are you doing there? -MH_

_Working Lestrade's case for him. -SH_

_Where is he? Find him. -SH_

_Mycroft? -SH_

* * *

Lestrade gripped the iron-barred gate, pulling it shut behind himself with an eerie squeak. It was raining, sending chilly droplets rolling down the back of his neck. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and trudged down the street to where he had parked his car.

Then he stopped short.

"Mycroft?" He squinted through the rain at the lone figure standing by his car, umbrella arching ominously over the man's head.

The government agent turned slowly. "Gregory."

Lestrade looked around for the man's car. "What are you doing here?"

Mycroft mirrored Lestrade's action and looked around at the people around them scurrying for cover from the rain. "Waiting... for you."

Lestrade sent Mycroft a startled look. "What's happened? Did Sherlock do something stupid again?"

"My brother is..." Mycroft raised his gaze upward at the grey sky. "...worried."

"About?" Lestrade asked, pulling out his notebook and readying his pen.

"Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade's suspicious actions recently." Mycroft stated bluntly.

Lestrade froze stiff despite the fat drops of water that drenched his notebook. "What?"

"My brother works by spotting out little details and minor inconsistencies, Gregory. You working cold cases when you've got a big media field trip on your hands, putting your sergeant in charge... of _Sherlock_, and not coming in to work. Those are a great many details that nag at his brain incessantly as much as a grammatical toothache."

Lestrade scoffed, pocketing his empty notes. "I'm not allowed to have an 'off' day?"

"You don't have 'off' days. And even when you do, you work through them." Mycroft pointed out.

"Well, maybe I'm just upset about the rift between me and the Missus. Have you thought about that?" Lestrade challenged.

"And how that includes you visiting the cemetery in the rain without an umbrella is beyond me." Mycroft raised his eyebrow, glancing at the cemetery Lestrade had just exited. "What is troubling you?"

Lestrade shook his head and pushed by Mycroft to get into his car. "It's none of your business."

And he drove off.

Mycroft watched him go with a frown on his face. Then, he turned and walked into the cemetery to speak to the caretaker.

"Excuse me. The man who just left, could you please tell me which grave he was visiting?" The boney old man with leathery skin turned and pointed to a stone amongst many identical. Mycroft nodded his thanks and set out.

Mycroft found the headstone in question with little difficulty. While, most of the headstones in the area had been vandalized and had fallen victim to the elements, five marble stones stood clean and proud, indicating reccuring visits and vigorous cleaning. The headstone placed at the head of the middle of the five graves stood a little higher than the four others.

_Robert Bates 1938-1992 Beloved husband and father._

"Robert Bates..." Mycroft murmured under his breath. "Who are you?"

He memorized all five graves, noting the five deaths all in the same year. Then he turned and walked away.


	18. Investigating

Investigating

Mycroft sat at home in his study, at his desk, sipping from a glass of whiskey.

_Bates, Robert; Born January 5th 1938. Deceased March 16 1992. Family; Wife, Bates, Julia, nee Hemsworth. Son, Bates, Daniel, deceased July 4 1977. Occupation; Detective Chief Inspector of the New Scotland Yard Narcotics Division._

The information continued on almost infinitely.

_Kelly-Mae Green, Detective Constable of the New Scotland Yard Narcotics Division. Deceased, 1992._

_Jason John - J.J - Carter, Detective Sergeant of the New Scotland Yard Narcotics Division. Deceased, 1992._

_Helena Dexter, Police Constable of the New Scotland Yard. Deceased, 1992._

_Victor Hale, Detective Constable of the New Scotland Yard Narcotics Division. Deceased, 1992._

Mycroft rubbed his eyes tiredly and scrolled down on his laptop screen. He didn't need the biographies and personal histories, just the information as to how they were connected to Gregory Lestrade.

Turns out, DCI Bates, DS J.J Carter, DC Green, and DC Hale were all pitched onto the same team in the narcotics division. DC Green and DS Carter were experienced undercover cops. PC Dexter was not in the narcotics division and did not know the other officers well. In fact, the only mention of her working with the team was on - coincidentally - their last case.

Mycroft clicked on the offered sub-category link. "They have whole sub-categories on this team. Wonderful." The government agent sighed.

The team had been investigating a drug cartel led by a man named Theodore Welles. DC Green and DC Hale had been in deep undercover, Green as an addict, and Hale as a small time dealer. PC Dexter was one of many officers who routinely patrolled the streets where Green loitered.

In 1992, the police made their move arresting Theodore Welles and everybody involved in the ring. With incriminating evidence and confessions, the cartel collapsed like a house of cards.

Mycroft could imagine the situation now. Crippled, humiliated, lost like a beast who's head was severed from its body, someone along the ranks of Welles's hierarchy slipped through Scotland Yard's rapidly closing net. After he had taken time to lick his own wounds in solitude, he set out to find the ones responsible for the catastrophy.

He had found Hale, a lead which had led to Green, who in turn yielded a connection to Dexter, who reported systematically to Carter, who was the partner of DCI Bates who Welles had known was after him for years. He set out after them, one after another, felling them like dominoes.

He had subdued them and excecuted every single last one of them with a lethal dose of drugs.

DC Hale and DC Green died as criminals, drug addicts, Dexter's death was brushed off as a freak incident, Carter and Bates's deaths were quiet and quickly brushed under the rug. The killer's intent was to exact revenge and to inspire fear, the last thing the law enforcement needed was for the media to get their hands on the news.

There was no great funeral ceremony for the five officers, only a handful of friends, families, and collegues to see them off. They were buried in a small, quiet cemetery instead of with their revered predecessors.

It was a depressingly sad story for the brave team, but at the end of it, Mycroft was even more lost than when he had began.

Where did Lestrade fit into this tragedy?

* * *

"Anthea." Mycroft called a few days later, when reviewing notes from a conference. "Remember when we first met Gregory Lestrade, I asked you to find everything you could on him?"

Anthea nodded slightly. "Yes, I remember." She then sent a pointed look at his notes. "I'll have it on your desk the second you have a free moment."

Because for Mycroft Holmes, time is money. Every second counts. Mycroft sighed and returned his attention reluctantly to his work. _So, what about the current situation between the States and Afghanistan was so interesting to the Prime Minister?_

* * *

_He's not at his house. -SH_

_Don't break in. -MH_

_Too late. His wife said he left yesterday and was staying at a hotel. -SH_

_Did she say why? Did she call the police? -MH_

_No, she didn't. But she seemed rather unsettled. -SH_

_I believe that tends to happen when a woman's husband begins to act strangely and suddenly walks out on her. Or was she unsettled by you? -MH_

_Hilarious. She mentioned a storage unit Lestrade owns. Said he goes there sometimes at random. -SH_

_What is in there? -MH_

_Lestrade never told her. -SH_

_I believe this has something to do with the mystery at hand. -SH_

_You do understand that this is a grave disrespect for his privacy. -MH_

_Never respected it anyway. You coming? -SH_

_If only to keep you out of trouble. - MH_

* * *

They met up at a dark loading dock, Mycroft in his car, Sherlock in a cab. "Mycroft." Sherlock greeted with a stiff nod.

"Brother." Mycroft responded, equally as tense.

Figures that Lestrade would be the only one who could make them work together without even trying.

Mycroft handed over a manila folder. Sherlock took it cautiously and opened it. "What is this?"

"The other day, you mentioned Lestrade not coming in to work. He was visiting the dead." Mycroft said. "Officers Bates, Carter, Green, Hale, and Dexter. All worked on the same case and sting operation, all killed in the weeks and months following the downfall of Theodore Welles's drug cartel."

"How does Lestrade fit into the picture?" Sherlock asked. "He wasn't even a copper at the time."

Mycroft shrugged. "That's what I'm here to find out."

Sherlock turned and began walking, not even looking up from the information in his hands. "He didn't rent out the unit in his own name. I've extrapolated from all the storage units in this God-forsaken place and narrowed down the possibles to somewhere over here within range of 10 to 50..." Sherlock finally looked up. "Should be somewhere..."

"Unit 34." Mycroft interrupted. "Formerly the property of the late DCI Bates."

Sherlock scowled but fell silent. The sound of their feet crunching on gravel in the outdoor storage facility being the only noise covering the silence.

"34. There." Sherlock pointed. He shoved the manila folder back into Mycroft's hands as he crouched eagerly to pick the lock on the door.

Mycroft stood back and let him, occassionally glancing around like a nervous little boy urging his partner-in-crime to hurry the bloody Hell up instead of making the act of stealing cookies from the jar an elaborate art.

Finally, the lock clicked and Sherlock let out a breath. "Okay, lets go." He straightened himself and opened the door.

Sherlock strode into the unit with a flashlight like he owned the place, Mycroft was busy groping for a light switch. He finally found it and flipped it on.

"Oh..." Sherlock's quiet exhale caught Mycroft off-guard.

He turned around. "Dear Lord..."

It was like an obsessed serial killer and a copper suddenly decided to get married and have a domestic. One of the walls were littered with pictures, photocopied pages from casefiles, and post-its like a 40-foot long murder board. There was a metal table at one end of the unit laden with a meticulously cleaned coffeemaker, an unopened bag of beans, and a stash of bottled water and energy bars. On the other end of the unit was a single desk cluttered with several police issued notebooks, boxes of evidence, casefiles dating back to at least forty years, and God knows what else.

This whole unit showed another, darker, desperate side of Gregory Lestrade that neither Holmes knew of.

"Mycroft." Sherlock breathed, extending an arm and pointing at a spot in the jungle of faces peering out at them from the murder-board-area.

Familiar hazel eyes stared out confidentally at them from under spiked black hair and smiled in that striking lop-sided manner Lestrade had when he felt he had done something particularly clever. He looked to be about twenty-something years, or younger, in the picture. A series of lines were drawn with marker spider-webbing out on the board. Several red lines attached the picture to pictures of Welles and several other familiar faces in the criminal world. A few white lines tied him in with Bates, Hale, and Green. There was a post-it stuck onto the corner of the photo.

_Gregory Lestrade. Ref. [a29]_

"A 29?" Sherlock read aloud, squinting at the writing.

Mycroft turned around. The wall opposite the murder board had been transformed into an enormous filing cabinet. "Category A." He spoke, walking over to the designated area. "File 29." His fingers brushed absently over the dusty spines to stop on the correct file. He hooked a fingertip into the file and pulled it off the shelf.

It was heavy, and slighly thicker than most of the other files. He carried it over to the desk and cracked it open. There was that picture again, the one on the murder board, photocopied and enlarged in the first page.

_Lestrade, Gregory._ It proclaimed. _Born in Dorset 1963 (age 28) _God, he was only 28 years old?

Mycroft skimmed the next few pages until he found something that caught his eye. _New Scotland Yard asset. Informant. Deep non-official cover._

"My God..." Sherlock managed when the truth dawned on him.

"Found what you're looking for, gentlemen?" Both Holmeses spun around when they heard Lestrade speak from the door behind them. He his arms were crossed and he leaned against the doorway, looking less than amused.

"Lestrade..." Sherlock began.

"I don't want to hear it, Sherlock." Lestrade cut him off icily. "I remember specifically telling you not to get involved."

Mycroft frowned, he had not heard about that.

And suddenly dark brown, near black, eyes were looking at him with a mixture of hurt and disappointment. "Get out. Both of you."

Mycroft swallowed hard through his suddenly dry mouth. "Inspector..."

"This is my case, Mycroft. It's personal!" Lestrade blurted angrily. "I don't want you in here. Do you understand that?"

Mycroft bit his lip. "Perfectly." He and Sherlock exchanged chastized glances before sidling meekly past the fuming Lestrade out of the unit. Mycroft turned back. "Gregory..."

"I don't want to hear your apologies, Mycroft." Lestrade murmured, shutting the door in his face with a resonating boom locking him in that stifling maze of horror.

And securely locking them out.


	19. Haunted

Haunted

"You really messed up, didn't you?" Sherlock looked up to see DCI Meadows towering over him with a cup of coffee like some avenging angel. Whether he was trying to be intimidating, or if he was just trying to offer Sherlock the damned cup of coffee, the consulting detective couldn't decide.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock scoffed, turning back to the police files on the case he was still working on. With all that had been going on with Lestrade, Sherlock had briefly forgotton why Donovan had called him in, in the first place.

Meadows set the styrofoam cup down in front of Sherlock and collapsed into a chair nearby. They didn't talk. Sherlock just stared studiously at the words on the casefile without actually reading them, and Meadows stared out at nothing.

Finally, Sherlock sighed and looked up. "What?" he demanded impatiently.

"Bothering you, am I?" Meadows smirked slightly, not even looking at Sherlock. That pissed him off a little. He had been edgy and tense for the past few days without Lestrade around to use as a verbal punching bag. He didn't bother Donovan or Anderson much because he knew they would kick him off the case. They were in charge for the time being, he had to remember.

"Yes! You're bothering me! What the bloody Hell do you want?" Sherlock snapped. God, he needed a smoke.

Meadows finally looked at him. "You messed up with Lestrade." he stated bluntly.

"Yes, _okay_? I did!" Sherlock huffed, rolling his eyes as he closed the casefile with a slap. "He said not to get involved with a case, but I did! It was just a case! I'm a consulting detective, it's what I do!"

"You have to understand, Holmes, this isn't just a case for Lestrade." Meadows pointed out icily. "It's _his_ case."

"They're _all_ his cases! What's so damned special about this one?" Sherlock spat, fumbling with a pack of cigarettes. "Mind if I smoke?"

Meadows shrugged. "It haunts him." He said slowly. "Every experienced cop has a case that they just can't let go of. No matter how many cases they solve, no matter how many people they save, they'll always go back to that one particular case. They just can't drop it."

"Why?" Sherlock asked, lighting and sucking on his cigarette. "Where the logic behind that?"

Meadows shrugged. "I don't know. We coppers just do it. When I was younger, my governor had a case like that. A kidnapping case. It wasn't extraordinary. Just one victim, a single little girl lost. Through all those serial kidnapping cases that we solved, the ones with alot of victims, he was still haunted by that one. After every difficult case, he'd rummage through his casefiles and he'd bring that one case back out. And he'd study it over and over, obsessively, almost. Back then, I was young and stupid. I laughed at him. And he'd have that haunted look in his eye and he'd say 'Laugh at me, Meadows, for as long as you can. One day, you won't find it so funny.' Horrible thing was, he was right."

Meadows lit a cigarette for himself. "I think that was why I wanted Lestrade on my team. All the other younger officers had that starry-eyed look of awe, but he didn't. He already had that haunted look when he walked in fresh out of the academy. He didn't talk about it, and I didn't ask. It's not something anybody else can understand."

Then, as abruptly as he had begun to speak, Meadows stopped. He just stood up and turned to leave.

"We never found that little girl, and my governor never solved that case even if it haunted him. Even until his dying day." He told Sherlock in passing. "Retired and died of old age before that. I'll probably never solve my case either, I've made peace with that fact so I don't know if I want to even solve it anymore. But Lestrade... this case, it's going to kill him one day." He scratched his head. "So leave it the Hell alone, or get off your bloody arse and help him."

Then he left.

After a half-hour's contemplation and two cups of coffee, Sherlock finally pulled out his phone.

You know where to find me. -SH

No, he erased the message. This wasn't a regular case.

You need my help. -SH

No, too arrogant, even for Sherlock in this instance.

Do you need help? -SH

Too condescending, too non-Sherlock, offering his help. He winced and violently erased the words with destain. He sighed and dropped his head into his hands in despair.

I'm sorry. -SH

Sherlock was just about ready to cry from frustration now. How, with his massive intelligence, could he think of all the words he shouldn't - _couldn't _- say?

Then he gave up.

* * *

Lestrade jumped when he heard a noise from outside the storage unit. Nobody came to the storage unit. He was used to the silence, accepted it, expected it, _welcomed_ it, even. Nobody was supposed to be here. He slid his hand into the desk drawer where he always left his gun when he came.

Then, the lock gave and Sherlock was suddenly standing in the doorway.

Of all the nerve...! Lestrade jumped up, slipping his hand silently back out of the drawer and shutting it without Sherlock noticing. "Sherlock, what the Hell-..." He was halfway though shouting when Sherlock strode in, completely deaf to his enraged bellows.

The consulting detective stalked straight up to him and shoved a styrofoam cup of coffee into his unresponsive hands. "Your coffee beans have well expired and, in all honestly, that particular brand tastes like dishwater."

Then he turned wordlessly and stalked back out, closing the door behind him... and locking it, from the outside, with a set of lock-picks.

Lestrade stared blankly, shocked into silence. Then he looked down at the cup in his hands and took a sip. The coffee was lukewarm and wasn't made the way Lestrade liked it. But it was coffee... and Sherlock was right about his expired coffee beans... and they did kind of taste like dishwater now that he thought about it.

He looked back up at the locked door suspiciously. "How the Hell?" He still couldn't quite wrap his mind around the fact that Sherlock locked the door from the outside without a key.

Let it not be said that Gregory Lestrade had a one-track mind.

* * *

It was the second day after that when Sherlock returned to his flat from the morgue to find Lestrade curled up and asleep in one of the armchairs in the sitting room. "You're looking healthy." Sherlock remarked sarcastically to the dozing man. He looked like he hadn't slept or ate in a week.

"You smell like morgue disinfectant." The detective in the armchair retorted, voice gravelly from disuse, without opening his eyes. Sherlock almost winced at the sound.

"Yes, well..." Sherlock shrugged off his coat and sat down in an empty armchair opposite Lestrade. "...It's an occupational hazard."

Then he picked up his violin and played.

It was as much of an apology as Sherlock Holmes was capable of offering.

"I'll probably never forgive you." Lestrade grumbled, still not opening his eyes since Sherlock entered the flat.

"No. I don't think you will."

But he kept on playing anyway.

"If-..." Lestrade spoke up, finally opening his eyes slowly. "If I asked you to find someone for me, would you find them without asking me for the specifics why?"

Sherlock paused, violin still attached to his chin. "Yes. I suppose I can."

There was a tense silence before Lestrade reached over and tossed a casefile on the coffee table between them. Sherlock put his violin down on his knees and picked it up. "Those two are the ones responsible. The case was never closed because we could never find them and arrest them." was all Lestrade offered.

There were pictures and basic profiles. Two blue-eyed, blonde men, young in the old pictures, one a petty criminal and the other an Oxford dropout. They had murdered officers Bates, Carter, Green, Hale, and Dexter in revenge for their participation in taking down Welles's drug cartel.

No mentions of Gregory Lestrade in the entire file.

Sherlock wanted to ask, he did. But he did not. "I'll see what I can do."

Then, he dropped the file back onto the coffee table and continued playing.

* * *

"Sir?" Anthea walked into Mycroft's office. She placed a thick file on his desk. "This is a compilation of all the noteworthy information in Inspector Lestrade's storage unit."

Mycroft rested his elbows on his desk and steepled his fingers thoughtfully. "Thank you, Anthea." He nodded at her. Anthea backed off into the shadows but did not leave the room just in case Mycroft had a need for her.

Mycroft contemplated the file on his desk seriously. He picked it up delicately with both hands.

Then he reached under his desk and shoved it into the shredder, watching with grim satisfaction as the contents were reduced to confetti.

Anthea raised a meticulously groomed eyebrow.

Mycroft stood and stretched briefly as though being freed from some terrible burden. "I think we have done our share of work today." He said quietly to his assistant.

"Yes, Sir."

Then, they turned and left the office, locking up securely after them before going home.

Let sleeping dogs lie, Mycroft decided. Let Lestrade keep his secrets. If he decided to introduce the Holmeses with the ghosts of his past, they would be ready to listen. Mycroft knew, all too well, the delicate importance of keep secrets.

It was no business of Mycroft's.

Until Lestrade decided it was so.

* * *

Sherlock stood, bundled in his coat and scarf in the cool night air, watching a house on the other side of the street. He saw silhouettes against the window blinds and the lights inside flickered off, drenching the house in shadows.

So those were the men who Lestrade had been tracking down... He pulled out his phone.

_Found them. Meet me at Baker Street. -SH_

He turned away to leave when he shot a last glance behind him...

... Only to see the two flaxen-haired criminals standing at a dark window, staring back at him.

Sherlock resisted the urge to freeze and turned away slowly, walking off at a leisurely speed so as to not cast suspicion on himself. Then he turned the corner and ran.


	20. Hate

Hate

It was nearing one o'clock a.m. when Meadows decided to get home. He wasn't a workaholic like Lestrade, he just liked to get things done on time. If he was honest with himself, he had been procrastinating in his work for the last few days since Lestrade wasn't around to reprimand him when he was slacking off.

Lestrade was away again. He hated that.

The last time Lestrade had retreated to wherever the Hell he went off to, he had showed up on Meadow's doorstep half a week later, not crying, not angry, just sort of exhausted and numb. Gregory Lestrade was never meant to look or act that hollow, he was meant to smile, to huff and roll his eyes in exasperation, to throw an arm casually around a friend's shoulder and laugh.

Truth be told, it scared Meadows when Lestrade disappeared. He wasn't lying when he said to Sherlock that Lestrade's ghosts would kill him one day.

His phone buzzed. _I'm worried. He hasn't come home yet. Is he with you? -Eva _And then there was Eva, Lestrade's wife. Dear, sweet Eva. Meadows remembered a time when Lestrade was so young and happy and head-over-heels in love. Hell, he still was, just didn't have time enough to proclaim it from the rooftops anymore. He remembered when Lestrade was still a constable and he brought in the quiet but confident woman to the office for Meadows to meet her.

* * *

_It was like something out of a cheap romance movie. Lestrade was a young, reckless constable. Eva was a friendly, skillful nurse. There was an accident in chasing down a suspect, Lestrade regained consciousness in the hospital and cracked an eye open to see her hovering over him like his own personal guardian angel and said 'Well hello, nurse.'_

_Eva just smiled back and adjusted his IV drip. 'So, whose gun did you jump in front of, cowboy?' she said in reply._

_They had hit off right away and began dating._

_Meadows remembered when Lestrade would complain over a body about ruined dates, or when he bribed Dimmock to write his reports for him as he rushed to see Eva. And, all too soon, Lestrade was standing in Meadows's office, bouncing nervously on the balls of his feet._

_"I'm getting married, Meadows." he had blurted when he saw his superior. "Oh God, what do I do?"_

_Meadows had just laughed at him. "You exchange your vows, get the ring on her finger, and you kiss your damn wife."_

_"But- but, she's talking about receptions and caterers and all this mumbo-jumbo!" Lestrade looked at him with wide eyes. "I have no idea what she's talking about."_

_Meadows scratched his head. "Well, neither do I. I've never married. Isn't your sister married? Didn't you go to her wedding?"_

_"I did, but I had just wrapped up a case!" Lestrade defended himself. "I had no idea what I was doing! Just arrived in my work suit, stuffed a rose in my breast pocket, went in there, and followed orders!"_

_"Speaking of families and weddings, did you tell your family about it?" Meadows asked him._

_"No..." Lestrade looked sheepish._

_"Alright, out with it. What's the deal with your family?" Meadows demanded._

_"I kind of ran away from home..." Lestrade trailed off with a wince. "What am I supposed to do? Call them and say 'Hey, Mum? It's Greg. I know I don't contact home often, sorry about that. Did you get the Christmas card I sent? You did? Good! Is now a good time to tell you I'm getting married?' They don't even know I was dating!"_

_"Well, how was it when your sister broke the news to you about her marriage?" Meadows sighed, feeling a headache creep up on him._

_"She called me from Dorset saying 'Hello, this is Maisie. Sorry about the sudden call, Greg. I asked the police for your contact number. I'm getting married to this guy I've been dating for the past three years - Terry - you remember him? The boy from high school that I had a crush on? I told you about him before you left, didn't I? Well, we've been dating, yeah. I was hoping you'd come? Reacquaintence yourself with Mum and Dad, too while you're at it."_

_"And what was your reaction?"_

_"'Great! Can't wait to meet him! But the timing might be a bit tricky because of the recent case-... oh, I'm a copper by the way, can you imagine?'"_

_"They didn't know?"_

_"Like I said, I ran away from home. For all I know, they might've thought I went and became a circus clown."_

_"But you've been in contact since the wedding?"_

_"Yep. Go over there for Christmas and birthdays, if possible. If not, I put in a call or send presents."_

_Meadows shook his head and handed Lestrade his desk phone. "Just wing it, then."_

_Lestrade flushed and glanced back at the closed office door behind them nervously. "You want me to call them... __**now**__?"_

_"Now."_

_The younger officer picked the phone up out of its cradle uneasily and dialed a well remembered number. "Don't pick up, don't pick up..." he murmered under his breath to himself. Someone on the other end picked up. "Oh, hi Mum!" Meadows just laughed at his subordinate's blatant 180 tone-turn. "It's Greg. Yeah, it's good to hear you too! Um, is Dad there? Maisie? Oh, that's good, saves time, well, um..." Lestrade looked nervously over at Meadows and grimaced. "Uh, sorry I can't soften the blow. I'm getting married."_

_And Lestrade expertly whipped the phone away from his ear to save himself from the deafening squeals from the other end._

_After he spoke with his family for a while, describing Eva, reporting how long they've been dating, and promising that he'd introduce them, he hung up. Then, they grabbed Dimmock, sat down crowded around Meadow's desk, ignored all their cases for the day, and ran a very serious investigation to familiarize themselves on the finer points of holy matrimony like the true bachelors they were._

* * *

Meadows missed that Lestrade. The Lestrade who jokingly walked around on his wedding day in a tuxedo and a blindfold so his soon-to-be wife could run around looking for her missing earrings without worrying that he would see her before the wedding and give them bad luck. He nearly bowled over the wedding cake, once, but everybody took it in good stride.

But now he was a senior officer, he had responsibilities, he had worries. He had his fair share of ghosts. And the more he tried to keep them at bay when with Eva, the more he tended to distance himself from her. Meadows knew that Lestrade's intentions were good but couldn't the lad just realize that Eva was a smart woman who knew the dangers and wouldn't have it any other way?

No, he decided. Wouldn't be Lestrade if he didn't worry about her.

It was sad how two people very much in love could live under the same roof and feel so distant. One thing Meadows was sure about, they would never stop loving each other, but they would never love each other too much like they had when they were young.

They had their ups and downs. Lestrade had his police work and Eva had her work at the hospital. Both were very demanding jobs. Eva had once had a fling with a P.E teacher and Lestrade had a drunk one-night stand... with a man. That had taken everybody by surprise, Lestrade took it the worst.

Then they argued, cried, laughed, and kissed and made up.

Meadows kind of hated that he had never gotten married whenever he saw them together.

There was a knock that pulled him out of his musings. "Meadows." Lestrade poked his head into the office, face gaunt and horribly bruised under his eyes. But his eyes were alive, they wern't hollow. Small mercies.

"Lestrade." Meadows nodded at him. "Come on in."

Lestrade meekly obeyed and closed the door behind himself. "Okay, I have a confession to make." he said.

"Lets hear it, then." Meadows leaned forward, elbows on his desk.

"I had Sherlock try to find William Pupshaw and Maurice York, the two criminals behind the murder of Bates, Carter, Hale, Green, and Dexter." Lestrade blurted, fidgeting.

"And?" Meadows raised his eyebrow in what he hoped to be an intregued way instead of unimpressed.

He had his fair share of doubts about that Sherlock Holmes lad, he'd already made a mistake once on this case when he ignored Lestrade's order to keep out of it. He knew Lestrade to be a man who believed in giving everybody a second chance, but in the time Meadows knew Sherlock, he believed that the consulting detective had used his second chance... many times over. But he also knew Lestrade to be a man who quickly forgave so he let it go.

"He found them." Lestrade said slowly, as if fighting to remember the feeling of saying those words.

Meadows let him have a moment to wrap his mind around the fact. Finding the criminals after such a long period of searching for them for so long, it wasn't unusual for it to feel unreal. Like it was a dream. But he needed Lestrade to be all there, physically, mentally, and emotionally when they arrested those sons-of-bitches.

"You okay?" He called out softly.

Lestrade looked up and nodded after a moment. "Yeah."

"Good. Give me the details."

Lestrade looked sheepish. "We're on the clock. Sherlock, dumb sod that he is, managed to get spotted by Pupshaw and York, he thinks they're going to try and make a run for it sometime tonight."

Meadows looked at his watch and cursed, jumping up. "We don't have time to waste then! We're going there ourselves, contact anyone who's on partol in the area, tell them to meet us there. They'll have to be our backup."

Lestrade nodded determinedly.

* * *

"Sherlock, what the Hell are you doing here?" Lestrade hissed when he found the consulting detective in a dark aclove on the other side of the street from the house in question.

"Waiting for you." Sherlock grunted back. "It's two in the morning, nobody's at the Yard. It's going to take a while for people to start waking up and getting down here. Thought you could use an extra number."

Lestrade and Meadows exchanged grim nods. "Okay. What's the situation?" Lestrade asked Sherlock.

"They've been packing for the last few minutes. Don't know if they've already destroyed any evidence or if they have yet to do it." Sherlock shrugged. "I only just got here myself."

"Okay, we're going to keep surveilance until backup arrives." Meadows said. "So Lestrade..."

"We should move now." Sherlock cut in. "They'll be leaving in a few minutes. Backup won't get here in time."

"Well, what do you suppose we do, Sherlock? Go in guns blazing?" Lestrade asked snappily.

"Use a decoy. One grabs their attention while the other two sneak up behind them and subdue them." With that, Sherlock straightened himself a few more inches and turned to leave.

"Wait! Sherlock! Where are you going?" Lestrade hissed after him.

"Being the decoy. I don't have a gun." Sherlock whispered back, already disappearing around to the back of the house.

Lestrade cursed under his breath and tried to stay put. He really did. Meadows saw his nervousness and rolled his eyes. "You're right, he's going to get himself killed. Go after him. I'll be the decoy."

Lestrade's head whipped around to face him. "No, Meadows-..."

Meadows cut him off. "It's your job to keep the civilians safe, right? Go on." He waved the younger officer off.

Lestrade nodded and disappeared after Sherlock.

With a calming breath, Meadows snuck up into the house's front yard. He had a bad feeling about this. He hated when he had a bad feeling. He was always right. _Shit! _He sucked in a breath and held it, unholstering his gun.

Then he kicked the front door down.

* * *

"Lestrade! What are you doing here?" Sherlock hissed when he heard the Inspector sneak up behind him in the rosebush near the back door.

"Keeping your stupid arse alive!" Lestrade snapped back. "Change of plans, Meadows is going to be the decoy. He's probably going to go in and try to drive Pupshaw and York out the back door toward us."

As if on cue, there were shouts and a few gunshots. Sherlock and Lestrade tensed, ready to strike at the first person to run through the back door.

But nobody came.

Silence hung in the air like a cold, wet blanket. Sherlock and Lestrade exchanged horrified glances at the implication of the silence. Then Lestrade was running and driving his foot into the backdoor, cracking it off it's hinges. He and Sherlock charged in past the kitchen, through the dining room, into the sitting room...

...Where Meadows lay, hollow eyes staring upwards, in a pool of blood. Not one of his bullets had been fired.

And God did they hate it.

* * *

Lestrade could hear the sirens, he could hear the running footsteps, he could hear the shouting... it just wasn't real.

He sat on the curb outside the house, elbows on his knees and head in his hands, staring at the ground between his feet. His blood-stained red feet. He squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed down bile.

Donovan was there suddenly, draping an orange shock blanket around his shoulders. She was shouting at Sherlock who was standing a few feet away. She was livid. Why did Sherlock need to stick his busybody nose into Lestrade's business? Why didn't he listen when Lestrade said to leave it alone? He couldn't just leave it in peace, could he? He wanted to know all the dirty little secrets, didn't he? Well? Did he get what he was looking for? Why did he run off on his own? Why didn't he follow orders? If Lestrade didn't feel the need to go after him to cover his arse, maybe his _partner_ would still be alive!

That was it.

"Enough, Donovan!" Lestrade finally shouted, nearly vomiting right then and there when grey spots invaded his vision. But he needed to keep it together. This was a crime scene now. He needed to take responsibility. Needed to lead his team. Sometimes he hated having that burden. He just wanted to go home and sleep.

He saw Donovan's mouth clamp shut at his shout. His voice softened. "Come on, Sergeant. It's not time to be pointing fingers. There are more important things to be done." Only, his slow brain couldn't quite remember what was to be done in situations like this.

"I don't get it." Donovan's voice wavered slightly and Lestrade knew she was crying. She liked Meadows. He wasn't a very outgoing, friendly man, but everybody liked Meadows. "Why do you keep on defending him?" She looked at where Sherlock was standing, stoic, emotionless. "This psychopath, this machine, this... _freak_!" Donovan's voice grew shrill. Even though Donovan was always disaproving of Sherlock, she never really insulted him with malicious intent... well, it was there now.

"Donovan..." Lestrade slowly stood up, wobbling slightly but managing to keep his balance. "...Please, Donovan. I'm tired. Just- just do your job." He looked hollowly at Sherlock. "Go home, Sherlock. We couldn't catch Pupshaw and York, but thanks for the help."

Ever since they had walked out of that damned house, Sherlock hadn't made a noise, much less moved a muscle. And he didn't, even after Lestrade spoke to him. Not until a black car pulled up in front of him and Anthea physically bundled him into the back of the car.

Then, she turned to Lestrade. "Mister Holmes sends his condolences and apologizes for not being able to come in person." And the black car was gone.

And Lestrade was alone. In the midst of bustling officers, forensics, friends, colleagues... he was absolutely alone.

He was willing to hate anything about now. Pupshaw, York, Donovan, fucking Anderson, Sherlock, Mycroft, his job, this case, his fucking bad choice to go after Sherlock instead of backing Meadows up like he was supposed to. _Shit!_

He sat back down on the ground tiredly. He wanted his wife, he wanted his home, he wanted his bed.

He decided to compromise by hating writing reports.

And bad coffee.

"Come on, Lestrade." he murmured to himself under his breath. "Keep it together. One problem at a time."


	21. Numb

Numb

The next few days passed in a blur of reports, condolences, a reprimand from the superintendant for acting without back-up, and a few days off to collect himself. Lestrade could do little more than nod or shake his head.

And then there was the funeral.

It was a small, private ceremony with only Lestrade, Donovan, Dimmock, and a select few attending from the police force in plain clothes. Meadows was never one for much extravagance and fanfare. Meadows had also never married and had no remaining family left. The party of mourners attenting the funeral consisted of police officers, two close friends of Meadows, and a bartender he had become increasingly friendly with.

The ceremony was quiet and reverent for their lonesome superior, but somehow, this was the sort of thing Meadows would have appreciated. Lestrade had been asked to give a euology but had refused, he would never be able to make it up there in front of his colleagues and speak about how honourable and kind his second police father-figure was. He'd never even be able to speak for the grief constricting his throat.

It was decided unanimously that no euology would be given. Dimmock had valiently joked that Meadows would come back to kick their arses for all the sap that would be floating around if they did. They all wrote whatever they wanted to say on a piece of white paper in the privacy of their homes and sealed it in an envelope. And when the time came, they placed all the envelopes on the casket before it was lowered. Meadows could take all their apologies and the words they would never be able to say to him in life with him to his grave.

Nobody moved for a long time after the ceremony ended. The first to go were Meadows's friends from long ago, followed slowly by the bartender accompanied by Donovan to give the rest more privacy. Ten minutes later, Dimmock stirred and took Eva gently by the arm and steered her away from the site with a worried but understanding look at the last man standing before the grave.

"Come along when you're ready, hey, Lestrade?" he said quietly. "I'm sure we could all use a drink... or several."

And then Lestrade was alone.

"You bastard." Lestrade rasped brokenly after a few minutes of silence. "You're not supposed to die on my watch. On my case." He raised a trembling hand and covered his eyes, face angled downwards as he hid his tears. "How am I supposed to live with that?"

And there he stood for a long time after.

* * *

Three days later, he returned to work where he found that Dimmock had taken the liberty of emptying Meadows's office. Lestrade felt as though a massive weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He didn't feel up to cleaning Meadows's office out himself or having it being done by a stranger.

He grew a newfound appreciation for Dimmock that day.

There were mountains of paperwork on his desk wating for him, and for once, he was glad. He didn't have the strength to run around questioning witnesses, interrogating suspects, or chasing down criminals quite yet. He was just too tired for that right now. He sat down and tried to distract himself from his grief.

He felt like he was living in a dream, working on autopilot. He needed coffee but he didn't get up. He didn't care.

He was drowning in paperwork and his handwriting was growing more and more sloppy with every page. He didn't care.

Eva had desperately needed his support in helping her grieve Meadows's death but he wasn't there for her. Again. She slipped out sometime last night to see the P.E teacher. He didn't care.

Molly Hooper had been texting him once every three hours, worrying about Sherlock who was busy mutilating a corpse without any real scientific objective. He didn't care.

Mycroft called him on his phone to convey his condolences. Lestrade had hung up on him the moment he heard what the call was about. He heard that speech so many times that didn't care for it anymore.

He rubbed his eyes tiredly. He just wanted to go to bed and not wake up for, say ten years, or so? Maybe he'd be able to bring himself to care then.

"Sir." He looked up to see Donovan hovering over his desk worriedly. "It's late, you should go home."

Lestrade looked at his watch. Donovan was right, it was late. The office was empty and the sky was dark out. A whole day had passed without his noticing. Curiouser and curiouser.

He nodded at her. "Right. Thanks." Donovan nodded back and left.

Five minutes later, Lestrade finally stretched and got up. His eyes, head, and arm muscles ached and his arse was as numb as the rest of him. He shrugged his jacket on and made his way outside...

...Only to find Mycroft Holmes waiting for him.

"Mycroft? What are you doing here?" Lestrade asked, curious despite his mental insistance that he didn't care about what Mycroft was up to now.

Mycroft just walked up to him and touched his upper arm lightly. "Come, you haven't eaten." he said authoritively.

"Sorry, Mycroft. I know you've got good intentions, but I don't think I can keep anything down right now." Lestrade sighed tiredly.

"Then, how about I take you somewhere where nobody would hate you for a moment's weakness." Mycroft slowly, gently, solidified his grip on Lestrade's arm and led him into his car.

Lestrade didn't know where they were going, even when the car had stopped and let them out. He only realized when feminine arms were wrapping around him warmly, soothing, at times almost protectively. He pulled back a little. "Sandy." The waitress self-consciously wiped a tear from her eye.

"We heard about what happened from Mister Holmes." Jonah told him, squeezing his shoulder comfortingly. "We closed up shop early, feel free to stay as long as necessary." Then they led their two patrons inside.

Inside sat a withery old man with white hair and a bent posture that would've immediately struck up a strong friendship with the Hunchback of Notre Dame. "Hey Matthews." Lestrade greeted the restaurant's owner weakly.

"It's been a while since I've visited." Matthews smiled back softly. "I hear you haven't been doing too good." He turned with great difficulty to his adoptive children. "Jonah, Sandy, go cook something up quick! Before Gregory here falls over from starvation!" he admonished, waving them away.

"Seriously, Matthews, it's like near midnight..." Lestrade tried to protest.

"Gregory Lestrade, you sit your arse right down and be quiet!" The old man snapped. "And you'd do well to think again if you think there will ever be a time when we turn you out of here. You are going to eat something and get some liquids in you and then you're going to find someplace to rest, understand?"

"Yeah..." Lestrade sent Mycroft an unreadable look that might've been exasperated, or a desperate plea for help... or, it might be suspicious of Mycroft's motives for all this. Then, Lestrade shrugged a bit to himself. "About that 'someplace to rest'..."

"You shouldn't go home. Your wife is not there at the moment." Mycroft told him bluntly.

"Yeah, I know." Lestrade sighed tiredly and crossed his arms on the table, resting his chin on them.

Matthews looked from Lestrade to Mycroft. "Well, as you said, it's getting late. I'm getting my old bones to bed." He pushed himself to his feet and tottered slightly. Jonah saw him standing and rushed to assist the ancient old man.

Sandy arrived with a few pancakes and a mug of warmed milk before following Jonah and Matthews out of the room.

Lestrade stared blankly at the stack of pancakes before him before looking at Mycroft. "Want some?"

Mycroft seemed to think about this for a moment before finally reaching over and sliding one of the pancakes off Lestrade's plate and onto a clean one for himself. They ate in silence for a while.

"How much do you know?" Lestrade asked suddenly, breaking the silence.

"Pardon, how much do I know about what?" Mycroft asked, taking a delicate bite of a neatly cut square of pancake.

"The... case." Lestrade, suddenly realizing he was hungry, shoved another mouthful of food into his mouth.

"I know just as much as Sherlock does, which is little more than pure speculation." Mycroft told him.

"Bullshit." Lestrade grumbled through a mouthful consisting of more syrup than anything. It made Mycroft cringe a little, but the detective needed his sugar, he argued. "This is _you_ we're talking about."

"Yes, it is." Mycroft shrugged. "I'm sure Anthea has kept a backup file on the case, but I haven't read the one she offered me."

Lestrade sipped at his milk tentatively. "Why not?" He was genuinely curious.

Mycroft shrugged. "We all have our secrets, do we not? If it is not necessary to know about it, I will not pry."

Lestrade took a thoughtful bite out of his pancake. "You know, that is probably the most decent thing a Holmes has ever done for me." he mused. "Um, thanks for that, I guess."

They continued to eat in silence.

"So, do I have to worry about you giving me the 'It wasn't your fault' speech?" Lestrade asked slowly, not looking at Mycroft.

"No, you have no need to worry." Mycroft smiled back. "I believe you've heard it enough times from many respectable, experienced people to know that there's some truth to the statement."

Lestrade snorted into his mug. "Right."

"It's true." Mycroft continued. "And I know that, you know it too. You just don't feel like you can believe it."

Lestrade raised his eyebrow silently.

"I work for the British Government, Gregory. I've made plenty of mistakes and decisions that resulted in blood that did not need to be shed." Mycroft frowned at his empty plate as though it had done him wrong. "And I don't think a guilt like that can be assuaged simply by people telling us that there was nothing we could've done. Because it's our job to make situations better, we believe that there is always something that we could've done better."

Lestrade noticed Mycroft's empty plate and kindly slid another pancake onto it. "Please, Mycroft, I don't need you to psychoanalyze me." he grumbled, not unkindly, just a little annoyed.

"All I mean to say is that, it's alright for you to feel guilty. I would be more worried if you didn't. And in knowing just how bad a situation is gives you an advantage in making it better. And I know you will make it better because I know how tenacious and stubborn you are against opposing natures. You don't do a bad thing halfway, and I feel sorry for Pupshaw and York."

Lestrade's eyes narrowed. "And, I suppose you're going to say that the first step in getting Pupshaw and York is to pull myself together and get some rest?" he deduced perceptively.

Mycroft smiled back in satisfaction. "Precisely."

Lestrade glanced around at the empty restaurant. "Speaking about rest, I feel a little bad about keeping the others awake." he chuckled sheepishly.

"I'm sure they understand." Mycroft shrugged. "You looked like you could use a friend."

Lestrade looked around again a second time, then back at Mycroft. Perhaps the government agent wasn't aware of their solitude? "You're the only one here, Mycroft." he pointed out at length.

Mycroft startled and swiveled his head a little, embarrassed. Lestrade just shook his head and chucked.

"Thanks, Mycroft."


	22. Arriving

Arriving

Lestrade held his breath. It was the first time he had invited Sherlock to a crime scene since Meadows' death.

"What! Sir, you can't be serious!" Donovan was the first to shout angrily when they arrived. "You brought the Freak here?" Anderson was quick to back the sergeant up.

_Here we go..._

"Donovan, stand down." he sighed, growing a headache from just imagining how bad the fallout was going to be.

"I don't like him, I don't want him here, and he has no right to be here!" Donovan insisted, waving wildly at Sherlock, who had ignored them completely and was scrutinizing the crime scene.

"That's not your call to make, _sergeant_!" Lestrade retorted, hating the fact that he had to pull rank on Donovan. She was a good cop and he liked her. Donovan bit her lip, clenching her jaw to keep herself from continuing her insubordinance. Lestrade sighed. "Look, you can't work with him, I get it. But, can you just... try?"

Anderson crossed his arms and scowled. "_Try? _It was hard enough _'trying' _before he went and got one of our best officers killed!"

Donovan tensed suddenly, realizing that the forensic officer had crossed a line that was simply not meant to be crossed. But, Lestrade's expression was stony and ice cold. And somehow, that was even worse than when he shouted at them. Anderson realized his mistake immediately and paled considerably, probably wondering if Lestrade was about to fire him right then and there, or something. "Alright." Lestrade sighed after letting the man suffer the uncomfortable silence. "If you can't work with him, find a way to work around him. And for God's sakes, don't antagonize him."

By the time they had finished arguing and had turned back to the crime scene, Sherlock was long gone.

_Murderer was the cashier at the grocery store the victim frequented. -SH_

_Ok. Sorry about Donovan and Anderson. They'll come around sometime. -Lestrade_

_No they won't. -SH_

Worst of it was, it was true, too.

* * *

Mercifully, Lestrade managed to arrive home before dinner that day. A rare occurance, he was hoping to apologize and talk things over with his wife. "Eva, I'm home." he called out, throwing his keys haphazardly onto the stand by the door. He paused.

Silence.

"Eva?" He moved cautiously through the house. The humble flower bouquet he had bought for Eva was placed onto the dining room table as he passed by. "Eva, you home, love?" He entered their shared bedroom and his breath hitched.

Not only was Eva gone. Her things had also been removed from the house.

Her clothes were gone from the wardrobe, her favorite jackets missing from their designated place in the closet beside Lestrade's suits. Even that flower vase she liked so much was gone. Pity, Lestrade had struggled to choose a bouquet that would accentuate the colours on the damn thing.

There were two pictures they had always kept on the nightstand beside the bed. One was of them in a pub when they had just begun dating, bright-eyed, wide smiles, Lestrade's arm around her waist and Eva leaning into him to whisper something that ended up being giggled drunkenly into his ear. The picture had been taken unexpectedly, every expression genuine.

In the second picture, Lestrade was in a smart tuxedo and Eva was in a stunning white wedding gown. They were standing on the steps of a small chapel, glowing with happiness. Lestrade had once again had his arm around the love of his life's waist, tipping her back ever so slightly to kiss her.

The picture of them in the pub was gone, the one of their wedding was lying face down. There was a handwritten note stuck in the back of the frame, Lestrade picked it out.

_All my love to long ago. -Eva_

Lestrade picked up the picture and sat slowly onto the edge of their-... _his_ bed. He traced the outlines of those brilliantly shining faces with his fingertips, wondering why he had let them drift away like this.

"All my love to long ago..." he repeated Eva's written words in a whisper to the empty room with a humorless chuckle.

Then he brushed the slightly dusty picture frame off and replaced it on his nightstand. He leaned back on his hands and stared up at the ceiling, willing himself not to cry.

He had known that this end was inevitable, Hell, they had both known that. But it was an entirely different matter when it actually happened.

God dammit. He already missed her.

It hurt, but surprisingly, it wasn't unbearable. Lestrade wondered if he should be relieved or mad at himself for that. He still loved her like family, just... not like wife. They had grown further apart and he accepted it with a little pain, a little anger...

... and a little hope.

It was the first of many nights he would arrive home to an empty house.

* * *

"I'm sorry for your loss." Lestrade looked up from his paperwork the next day to see Mycroft in his office.

"Okay... who died?" he asked with half a smile.

Mycroft shuffled uncomfortably. "Hilarious, Gregory."

Lestrade snorted. "Sorry, Mycroft. But it's not the end of the world for us, we knew it would've happened sometime, or another. Thanks anyways." Suddenly, Lestrade did a double take. "Hey! Mycroft!"

"What?" Mycroft jumped, eyes startled. "What?"

"You're in my office." Lestrade said tonelessly, narrowing his eyes a little.

Mycroft settled, looking a little annoyed at being startled for nothing. "Astute observation, Gregory."

"You never came into my office, before. You were always waiting somewhere outside." Lestrade continued, shrugging.

"Well, I suppose there's a first for everything." Mycroft sighed in resignation.

"So..." Lestrade prompted, leaning his elbows on his desk in a very faux-businesslike manner. "Mister Holmes, what can I do for you?" He smiled in amusement. "Has such a official air about it."

Mycroft merely snorted with a small smile. Then he looked serious. "Actually, Gregory, I just came by to apologize for the... _trouble _my brother is causing between you and your subordinates."

Lestrade sighed. "And then there's that."

Mycroft looked sympathetic. "I'm-..."

Lestrade cut him off with a raised eyebrow. "Seriously, Mycroft?" Mycroft blinked at him blankly. "You don't have to come apologize every time Sherlock does something bad, you'd never leave this place." Lestrade pointed out. "And, honestly, it's getting old. I know you're sorry, and I know that there's nothing you can do about Sherlock. Believe me, I know the pros and cons of bringing Sherlock in on cases. I'm prepared to handle the angry officers and bruised egos that come with it." He pointed at Mycroft. "I've handled Sherlock for a few years now, I'm not made out of glass."

"You're not exactly made of ice either." Mycroft returned pointedly. "If there's something you feel I can help you with, anything at all, you know my number."

Lestrade sighed, nodding. "Well, for one thing, I think Sherlock could use someone, a friend other than me, to look after him while not on cases. You know, to get him to eat and sleep. I'm thinking of working a bit more with my team without interference from Sherlock, let them know I'm not favoring Sherlock over them. You'll need someone else to take over babysitting duties."

Mycroft sighed in that long-suffering way of his. "Well, lets see what we can do about that."

* * *

Meanwhile, while Lestrade and Mycroft were wracking their brains for potential friends for Sherlock, an injured, weary-looking army medic with a pronounced limp stumbled off a plane from Afghanistan and back into the cool, wet London city.

_Home, sweet home._


	23. Proving

Proving

_Help. Got kicked out. -SH_

_Again? You just moved into that flat! What did you do? -Lestrade_

_Shot the wall, blew up the kitchen, put experiments in the fridge, played violin at night, and forgot to pay the rent. -SH_

_And I think the heart attack I gave the old woman in the flat next to mine had something to do with it. -SH_

_Dammit, Sherlock! -Lestrade_

Lestrade arrived on scene half an hour later. "Seriously, Sherlock, why don't you let Mycroft just buy you a house of your own? One that you can't get kicked out of?" he grumbled as he and Sherlock loaded the consulting detective's possessions into Lestrade's car. They'd have to make a few trips for everything.

"Never. Too much trouble." Sherlock shot back, gingerly rolling a jar of human stomache into bubble wrap.

"More trouble than this?" Lestrade asked, waving around at the chaos around them as he spotted the small stack of police IDs in one of Sherlock's drawers and pocketed it.

Sherlock just looked at Lestrade with distain. "You don't know Mycroft like I do."

"I've never had to, I've never annoyed him as much as you do." The inspector shot back as he tossed Sherlock's skull into a cardboard box.

"Careful with that." Sherlock snapped at him.

Lestrade closed the box and taped it shut, looking innocently at Sherlock. "Careful with what?" Sherlock scowled and Lestrade just rolled his eyes back at him. "So, where are you going this time?" Lestrade asked as he began unloading Sherlock's books off a shelf.

"Baker Street, I know someone there who owes me a favor." Sherlock flipped through an old police case file and tossed it into the rubbish bin.

Lestrade frowned and fished it back out, brushing it off. "Oi, government property." He too flipped through it. "Wow, this is from ages ago!" he grunted, sitting down.

Sherlock looked at him, exasperated. "Are you going to help me pack up or are you just going to sit there being useless?"

"Ah, I'm good here, thanks." Lestrade waved at him, not looking up. Sherlock rolled his eyes and continued stuffing objects into boxes. Lestrade heard fragile objects break every once in a while but wasn't bothered. Sherlock broke things all the time... and in the fifteen other times Lestrade had helped him move, it was worse. "Arn't flats at Baker Street pretty pricey?" he threw out when Sherlock disappeared into the kitchen and didn't come out.

Sherlock's head appeared around the corner. So he was still alive? "They are, but like I said, 'owes me a favor'. Offered me a discount, though I'll still probably need someone to split the rent with."

"Oh, yeah. You don't get paid for police work." Lestrade nodded thoughtfully.

Sherlock scowled at him. "No, I don't. But don't think all my savings come from Mycroft. I have clients."

Lestrade looked up. "'Clients'?"

"People who need help, people who have a good mystery they want me to solve, interesting cases only. I have a website, look it up. It's called 'The Science of Deduction'." And with that, Sherlock's head disappeared again.

"M'kay, if you say so." Lestrade shrugged. "Well, good luck on finding someone to flatshare with you."

"You sound like something like that is beyond me." Sherlock's voice was disapproving.

"Well, I've known you for a few years, Sherlock. I've never heard of you having any friends that arn't informants, criminal specialists, or reduced to skulls." Lestrade replied dryly.

Sherlock's head popped back out of the kitchen again, mouth open to speak. Then he closed his mouth and disappeared wordlessly.

Lestrade just shook his head and chuckled.

* * *

Three hours later, they were pulling up outside 221b Baker Street and unloading Sherlock's belongings. "Sherlock! There you are! How are you?" A kind, elderly voice chirped.

Lestrade turned around just in time to see Sherlock swoop in and peck a small lady on the cheek. "Splendid, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock turned to Lestrade. "Mrs. Hudson, Detective Inspector Lestrade." he introduced them.

"Nice to meet you, young man." Mrs. Hudson smiled cheerfully at him.

"Lovely to meet you too, Mrs. Hudson." Lestrade smiled back. "I would shake your hand, but I think one of Sherlock's jars broke, don't want anything catching." he said, pointing at a corner of one of Sherlock's boxes that was quickly beginning to soak in some kind of sticky liquid.

"I would suggest you wash your hands, Lestrade." Sherlock said to him. "Like, right now."

"How worried should I be?" Lestrade drawled dryly, eyes narrowing.

"Enough."

"Here, come in and wash up." Mrs. Hudson chuckled at the two bickering men on her doorstep. "Have some tea before you unload everything, Sherlock, you too."

And, wonder of wonders, Sherlock followed.

* * *

_Sherlock's looking for someone to share a flat with. -Lestrade_

_He'd have find someone who can stand him, first. A friend, of sorts. -MH_

_He'll get one. -Lestrade_

_One that isn't you? -MH_

_Yeah. -Lestrade_

_I find that difficult to imagine. -MH_

_You can't interfere, okay? Sherlock. Friend. All on his own. Remember that. -Lestrade_

_He'll keep us waiting 'til kingdom come. -MH_

_Come on, have a little faith. -Lestrade_

* * *

"Who's this?" Lestrade asked, glancing at the short blonde man with the cane who followed Sherlock into the crime scene. When he had first seen the man at Baker Street, Lestrade had assumed he was one of Sherlock's clients.

"He's with me." Sherlock replied in clipped tones.

"Yeah, but who is he?" Lestrade looked the man over, wondering what kind of specialist Sherlock tried to involve in a case this time.

"I told you, he's with me." Sherlock replied pointedly.

_Oh._

_Oh!_

"So, where are we?" Sherlock asked him, shaking him out of this thoughts.

He glanced up. "It's upstairs."

Going over the crime scene went without a hitch as far as Sherlock was concerned, Lestrade had contemplated not letting the stranger near the body for good reasons but the man looked like a reasonable bloke, surely he couldn't do more damage than Sherlock? He stood by the door as Sherlock and the stranger knelt over the body and spoke in hushed whispers.

"Well?" he heard Sherlock ask the blonde who had been referred to as a 'medical man'.

"What am I doing here?" the man asked in return. _Good question, Sherlock._

Sherlock glanced at Lestrade and the inspector pretended not to be eavesdropping. "Helping me prove a point."

"I'm supposed to be helping you pay the rent!"

"Yeah, but this is more fun."

Lestrade, who had his back turned to the two in the crime scene, smiled at that. He fished out his phone to prove a point of his own.

* * *

Mycroft's phone buzzed. He put down his pen and looked at it. It was a picture from Lestrade's phone accompanied by a text. The picture was of a short blonde man stooped over a body with Sherlock._ Hm, former military man, psychosomatic limp, thus the cane, ect..._

He read the text. _Sherlock's made a friend and it's not the end of the world. Captain John H. Watson. Formerly of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers. Injured shoulder, psychosomatic limp, suffering from PTSD. Just back from Afghanistan, decent enough bloke, no criminal record. Thoughts? -Lestrade_

_Notes from his therapist. Did you use your occupation as excuse to get that information? -MH_

_Googled him too, but not the point. -Lestrade_

Three hours later...

_Dr. John Hamish Watson. Decent? Yes. Psychosomatic limp? Fact. PTSD? None at all. He'd do well with Sherlock. -MH_

_You kidnapped him. Shit! I knew I was forgetting to warn him about **something**! -Lestrade_

_When being the flatmate of Sherlock Holmes, warning him of the older brother and his kidnapping schemes is understandibly pushed to the back of the mind. -MH_

_Not funny. I told you to stick out of it! -Lestrade_

_Fear not. I was merely proving my own point. -MH_

_Which was? -Lestrade_

_That I worry about Sherlock... constantly. -MH_

_Do you seriously say that to everybody Sherlock befriends? -Lestrade_

_... -MH_

_Oh, you were having a really, really dramatic moment and I ruined it. I'm sorry. -Lestrade_

_Your sarcasm is tangible in text, a fearsome talent. -MH_

_Your sarcasm isn't. Dammit, I was almost flattered! -Lestrade_

_Are we seriously about to have a pissing match through text? -Lestrade_

_Nevermind, don't answer that. I'm busy convincing myself that John H. Watson is __**not**__ a crackshot, __**doesn't**__ own an illegal firearm, didn't just __**giggle**__ at a crime scene, and really, __**REALLY**__, didn't kill the cabbie. -Lestrade_

_Well, good luck with that. -MH_

_Oh, hey Mycroft. What are you doing here? -Lestrade_

_Visiting my brother. You? -MH_

_Need to fill out reports about the cabbie. Coffee sometime? -Lestrade_

_Excellent. -MH_


	24. Encouraging

Encouraging

"Hey, um, DI... Lestrade, wasn't it?" Lestrade looked up from the body sprawled across the floor to look at Dr. John Watson.

"Uh, yeah. What is it?" Lestrade cleared his throat nervously. It was difficult enough having Sherlock on a crime scene, it was downright weird to have a normal guy here following Sherlock around like a lost puppy. John subtly motioned for him to accompany him away from the scene for more privacy. Which was a good thing, Lestrade thought, it was the first time John had willingly distanced himself from Sherlock since their entry to the crime scene.

"Um, you've known Sherlock for a while now, ...right?" he asked when they were out of earshot, Lestrade nodded slowly. John shifted on his feet nervously and lowered his voice. "The body parts in the fridge, is that-... is that normal?"

Oh, bless him. Lestrade nearly burst out laughing.

"Dr. Watson, you don't know the half of it." He glanced over his shoulder to make sure Sherlock was still engrossed in his examination of the body.

"Well, it's just that, it looks like a human had just been blown apart in the flat. There are eyes in the microwave, heads in the fridge, thumbs in the condiments drawer... and I think Sherlock lost the human ears somewhere under the couch." John looked as if he was fighting an inner battle to try and figure out whether he should add Sherlock to the mess of human remains scattered around the flat, or if he should just curl up in the relative safety of his bed and cry.

"Okay, first things you need to know; if Sherlock's experiments are ones that take place over the course of time like, say, measuring the coagulation of saliva after death, you can make him keep it at Bart's where Molly will look after it. No potentially lethal experimentations are allowed on himself, you, Mrs. Hudson, or any other living being, and yes, that does include micro-organisms and organisms that do not own a brain - don't ask. Inedible objects are never allowed to be placed with edibles, and if they are, you are welcome to try and feed it to him. Trying to convince him not to break the law for a case is futile, so just try to keep it at a minimum. If he gets bored and tries to infiltrate government organizations like the military, MI5, MI6, Buckingham Palace, or Downing Street, don't follow him and call Mycroft Holmes immediately. And whatever you do, don't forget that you always have the option of terminating flat share agreements. I mean, Sherlock's a mate, and I'd hate to see you go, and all, but I still got my job of keeping people alive and I take it very seriously."

Silence. Unadultulated, horrified, silence.

John just gaped at the DI with wide eyes. "Uhhh, ...okay."

"We good then?" Lestrade smiled cheerfully. John finally closed his mouth and nodded. "Wonderful. On another matter, your blog? Study in Pink? Fantastic, keep up the good work." Lestrade patted the shell-shocked doctor's shoulder encouragingly. "If there's trouble you think I can help with, don't hesitate to call."

Then, he turned and walked back over to where Sherlock was. "Don't you think that was a bit much?" Sherlock drawled quietly at him over the body. Lestrade peered over his shoulder to where John was rubbing his face and sighing, thinking 'Oh, God. Oh, God. They're all mad.'

"Nah, I think he'll be just fine."

"And my experiments on living organisms arn't that bad, you make me sound like Dr. Frankenstein." Sherlock scowled.

"Wish you'd told me that two years ago when you got bored and tried to find out if you could hypnotize a chicken into crossing the road." Lestrade deadpanned.

"I didn't try to make a chicken cross the road, I was merely trying to see if it was possible to hypnotize lethally dangerous animals to carry out murders. Apparently, you can only succeeding in putting chickens in a trance." Sherlock defended himself, Lestrade's joke flying straight over his head. Obviously, all 'chicken crossing the road' jokes had been long deleted from his brain.

Lestrade shook his head. "Whatever, Sherlock." Then he narrowed his eyes at the consulting detective. "You kept the eyes? I thought you were finished your experiments."

"I am." Sherlock replied simply. "I'm measuring how long it will take for John to realize I haven't touched it for days and attempt to throw it out."

"I don't think he's going to touch that subject with a ten-foot pole." Lestrade shrugged. "Well, good luck with that."

Finished with the crime scene examinations, he, Sherlock, and John exited, letting Anderson and his team take over. "Difficult to say who the killer is in this case, at the moment." Sherlock declared, tightening his scarf around his neck. "I'll text if I find something more concrete." He turned to go find a cab.

John looked at Lestrade inquisitively and Lestrade nodded back. "Yep, he's always like that."

John turned to follow his flatmate when he froze midstep, tensing up. Lestrade furrowed his eyebrows concernedly until he saw what it was that John saw. Mycroft's car had just pulled up on the street across from them and the man himself stepped out.

"Oh, hey, Mycroft!" Lestrade called out cheerfully, waving.

John whipped around to look at him incredulously, amazed at the casual friendliness with which Lestrade had called out. "You know him?"

"He's Sherlock's brother." Lestrade shrugged. "I heard he kidnapped you, too. I forgot to warn you about him beforehand, sorry, mate. Though, in my own defense, I told him not to get involved." He walked over to approach Mycroft. "Mycroft, what are you doing here?"

Mycroft inclined his head. "Just dropping by to check up on my brother and his new flatmate." He nodded politely to John over Lestrade's shoulder.

"Well, you've just missed Sherlock, he ran off somewhere a few seconds ago." Lestrade gave a lopsided smile. "Good news though, Dr. Watson's still hanging in there." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "I like him."

Mycroft smiled a little. "Oh, you would. He handled the meeting well, a bit more civil than you were, might I add. He didn't offer to shake my hand."

"Are you still mad that I helped Sherlock break into Thames House? Really?" Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "I'll have to give it to you, Mycroft. You know how to hold a grudge."

"Unfortunately, Sherlock breaking into Thames House isn't rare. Getting pick-pocketed, however, that is a different story. That, Gregory, was personal."

Lestrade grinned, almost preening triumphantly at Mycroft's reprimanding frown. "Well, at least Sherlock didn't manage to get into the server before he was caught. You know how he is, can't resist hitting a button labeled 'Do not touch'."

"Oh, it's all about the silver lining, with you, isn't it?" Mycroft sighed.

"Oi! Do not insult the hair!" Lestrade shot back, chuckling.

Mycroft shook his head, huffing with amusement. "You will excuse me, Gregory, I have a tight schedule to keep."

"Hogwarts?" Lestrade smiled innocently.

Mycroft scowled back. "If you must refer to it as such."

Lestrade let out a bark of laughter. "Well, it was good to see you again. I'll tell Sherlock you were very reluctant to send your regards."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Do, inspector. Good evening, Dr. Watson." Then he turned and remounted his vehicle.

Lestrade turned back to see John staring at him like he was an alien. "What?"

John shook himself out of whatever trance he was in. "You handle Sherlock, you're friends with his brother, ... mate, you've got more balls than I do." he sighed, shaking his head and walking away.

Lestrade laughed after him. Then, realizing that he had forgot to speak on a very important matter with John, he phoned him. "Say, want to go out and grab a pint later?"

_"Oh, God yes. Do I even want to know why you have my number?"_ John sighed back.

"Mycroft locked it into my speed dial. Sorry, but I couldn't delete it even if I wanted to." Lestrade offered a sheepish chuckle.

_"And that doesn't weird you out? That he hacks into your phone?"_ John asked him incredulously.

"Stick around a few years and I'll ask the same to you." Then, Lestrade laughed. "Or I can just ask you now, about your laptop."

_"... Point taken. Only, Sherlock doesn't tell **me** every time Mycroft hacks into your phone. Why do you know about the laptop?" _John asked, more curious than suspicious.

"Sherlock was positively vibrating with glee that your new password was 'fuckoffsherlock' he had to boast about it to somebody and Mycroft was conveniently in a meeting with the Prime Minister at that time. I was just an innocent bystander." Lestrade explained. "Relax, he's just excited about having a friend."

_"Was that suppose to assure me?" _John asked him with a resigned sigh.

"Honestly, no. But if it did, that's good too." Lestrade shrugged.

_"..."_ John sighed. _"You're right, I'll need a drinking partner to get me home after I get myself completely sloshed."_

"You got it, mate."

Lestrade hung up. "Good luck John Watson, you'll need it." he mused to himself.

Then he texted Mycroft. _I think Dr. Watson needs one relatively normal friend to keep him sane. -Lestrade_

_Excellent idea. Now, where do we find one? -MH_

_Haha, very funny. -Lestrade_

And that was how John Watson and Gregory Lestrade became fast friends.


	25. Worrying

Worrying

_Dimmock's working another case with Sherlock. -Lestrade_

_I'm going to be honest and say that I'm suitably worried. -Lestrade_

_And why is that? -MH_

_It's Dimmock. And Sherlock. Dimmock's a by-the-book, total pushover type and Sherlock doesn't remember that there's even a book because he ripped it up and used it to wipe up the remains of a failed experiment. -Lestrade_

_Fair point. -MH_

_Why is it that you are not working the case? -MH_

_I asked for a day off, decided to move out of the house and into a smaller flat. -Lestrade_

_Is there something I can help with? -MH_

_Thanks, but no. Keep me informed on Sherlock? -Lestrade_

_Very well. -MH_

* * *

He had unknowingly walked into a TV show, John was certain of that when the case of the 'Blind Banker' was through and done with and he had a moment's peace to contemplate his new friends.

His flatmate was an eccentric consulting detective/mad scientist/pioneer in forensic sciences. Said flatmate's brother was a mysterious spook who may-or-may-not control the government via evil puppet strings. His landlady was a sweet, entirely unflappable elderly lady who was a piece of work-... no, a _masterpiece_ in herself. And then there was the copper, the one normal person, or not so normal... because really, who can remain 'normal' and 'sane' when surrounded daily by such extraordinary people?

John decided that Lestrade was normal... in an abnormal way.

But that wasn't the most serious matter at hand. The ex-army medic cast an uneasy glance in his flatmate's direction. The man was constantly checking his phone at every three-minute interval possible between examining whatever monstrosity that was existing currently under his microscope. It looked a bit green, like, cartoon-poison green, or movie-radiation green. In short, it was pretty bloody neon. John didn't want to know what it was, and what caused it to gain that kind of nauseating colour.

He sighed. "What are you waiting for, Sherlock, seriously? Put that phone down for five minutes."

Sherlock sent him a glance and placed his phone down on the kitchen counter. "Does it bother you?"

"You, picking up that damned thing every three minutes since half-an-hour ago?" John said sarcastically. "Doesn't bother me a bit."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, scoffed, and glanced at his phone again, though, in his defense, he didn't actually pick it up. Just leaned ever so blatantly. John rolled his eyes and groaned. "Seriously, what?"

"I'm waiting for a call." Sherlock said simply.

"Well you know, usually, when you get a call, the phone rings, or vibrates." John said slowly.

Sherlock scowled at him. "I'm not an idiot, John, I know how my own phone works."

"Then, what's got your nerves running ragged?" John asked him.

"They're not running ragged." Sherlock retorted.

John just raised his eyebrow.

"We're working with Dimmock again." Sherlock said at length.

John's brow furrowed in confusion. "So?"

"So nothing." Sherlock groaned, gluing his eyes back on his microscope. "Drop it."

And so John did.

* * *

_Holmes isn't telling me what he's found out about the case. -Dimmock_

_Ask him, then. -Lestrade_

_What? Just go straight up to his flat and demand answers? -Dimmock_

_Dimmock, you have to stop being so bloody polite and respectful when Sherlock's involved! -Lestrade_

_Okay, that's a bit weird, being told not to be polite and respectful. -Dimmock_

_I'll give you his phone number, then. Call him. Ask questions when you need answers, keep him informed. -Lestrade_

_He hung up on me and now he's not taking my calls. -Dimmock_

_Should I be worried? -Dimmock_

* * *

"Seriously, Sherlock, do you never do a stupid thing without backup?" John shouted over the noise of people shooting at them. He had no idea why those men were shooting at them, but he had a very bad feeling that Sherlock was at the root of the whole problem. It was just one of those days when Sherlock recieved an intreguing case, ran around like a squirrel on crack, got shot at, and only explained later-on, why.

Only this time, John was getting the feeling that he might not be around long enough to hear the 'why'.

"I called the police!" Sherlock hollered back.

"Do you have an ETA?" John asked him.

"Too long!" was all Sherlock said.

"You know, just for future reference in case we live through this, you should call for police backup _before _you decide to do something stupid!" John shouted at him complainingly.

"I do!" Sherlock replied. "Same as when you and Sarah were kidnapped! They're just too slo-..." Sherlock suddenly cut himself off. "Of course! Why didn't I realize that!" He let out a breathy laugh. "Of course! Dimmock's reaction time is slow!" He whipped out his phone and sent a lightning fast text.

twelve minutes later, police were swarming the scene. John let out an exasperated sigh. "Finally!"

Sherlock was already up and brushing dust off himself as he swept toward the edge of the crime scene, trusting John to follow. The doctor did just that... just as soon as he could get his legs to support his weight.

Lestrade was pointing wildly at his subordinates and barking out orders, scattering groups of idlers with a stern look. He was dressed in jeans and a loose, obviously worn T-shirt flecked with dust and sneakers. He turned to Sherlock, sighing. "I was busy moving, Sherlock! I hope you have a good reason for calling me out. Heard you were getting shot at. Do you never learn?"

Sherlock sniffed and stuck his hands in his pockets. "Lestrade, I refuse to work with Dimmock any longer."

Lestrade blinked, confused. "What do you mean? I thought you two got along okay?"

"We do, but I can't trust his reaction time." Without giving Lestrade time to ask what he meant about that, Sherlock turned and stauntered off.

"Do you have any idea what he's talking about?" Lestrade asked resignedly, turning to John.

In fact, John had an inkling or two.

Sherlock's agitation at Dimmock not texting or calling to tell Sherlock when he learned of new details on a case, his annoyance when Dimmock _did_ call him only to berate him incessantly on his investigative methods, his confusion as to why the police hadn't come immediately when he had called for backup. Dimmock was probably still in the arduous proccess of getting together the manpower and the 'okay' from his superiors.

Which probably wouldn't come, by the way.

Lestrade had only taken a few minutes to round up a team of officers and probably broke a few speed laws to get to the scene in time. And to top it all off, he was off duty, moving furniture at the time Sherlock texted him.

It seemed that Sherlock had an odd trust for the DI, one that not even he himself knew of. He trusted that Lestrade would always keep him in the loop on an investigation, ask questions when he needed information, and that when Sherlock needed his help, he would be there without question whether his superiors had approved of the action, or no.

It was a rare trust that obviously had not been extended to Dimmock.

"Apparently, Dimmock's reaction time is slow." John told the puzzled detective with a nonchanlant shrug.

Then he turned and followed his flatmate.

While Lestrade was normal to Sherlock's abnormal, and ordinary to the consulting detective's extraordinary, perhaps that was what made the dynamic between him and Sherlock so spectacular.

* * *

_Sherlock's complaining about Dimmock's incompetency. -MH_

_Dimmock's complaining about Sherlock, period. -Lestrade_

_How is your move coming along? -MH_

_I had given up hope for finishing up transporting everything when Sherlock called me out. Expected to spend the night in a sleeping bag. Imagine my surprise when I got back and found everything neatly transported into the flat and sorted out. -Lestrade_

_Just a little token of gratitude for your pains. -MH_

_Haha. Though a little creepy, knowing that your men have been going through my stuff and probably planting various surveilance measures, the effort is appreciated. -Lestrade_

_Thanks. -Lestrade_

_My pleasure. -MH_


	26. Injured

Injured

Lestrade felt like he couldn't move if he wanted to. Naturally, one's primal instinct would be to get into action be it trying to move, finding out why one couldn't move, or...

With all the strength he could muster, Lestrade painfully groped inside his desk drawer for the bottle of painkillers he kept there for emergencies such as this. He popped the pills into his mouth and chased them with disgustingly cold, three-hour old coffee.

Being Gregory Lestrade came with a heredetary case of clumsiness and working with Sherlock was bound to have its fair share of dangers, also, being in the police force was dangerous enough, nobody had any arguement against that. As it turns out, guilty suspects tend to run, or fight back.

Seriously, who knew, right?

Figures that his luck would manage to mix all three of those points into one painful incident involving running to save Sherlock from being killed by their killers (two of them), trying to catch the killer who ran, getting slugged by said killer, slipping on a carpet and taking a spill down the staircase right behind him, taking the unfortunate killer with him.

Funny, he could've sworn that that staircase wasn't there moments before...

"Here, Sir." Donovan said softly so as not to make her superior's aching head worse. She passed him an ice pack. "For the bruising."

Lestrade took the cold compress with a grateful look and pressed it to his right cheekbone where the killer, who was now in custody, had punched him... hard. He winced and grabbed his handkerchief with his free hand, dabbing it at a speck of blood on his forehead.

"Hm, doesn't look too good. Might want to check it out." Donovan frowned in a slightly mother-hen way. It was almost weird.

Lestrade just grunted. "You should see the other guy." At least he had managed not to break any bones...

"How are we going to handle the Cunninghams, Sir?" Donovan asked about their killers.

"We've got solid evidence against them, they're going to confess, besides, we can also charge them with attempted murder and - well - we can charge _one _of them with assaulting a police officer if worse comes to worse." He finally stopped fussing about the blood on his face and stood up.

"Now hold on right there, _you're_ going to be running the interrogation?" Donovan squeaked, eyes wide.

"What? Not good? I might intimidate them with my blood." Lestrade pointed to his face. "Maybe I should get an additional eyepatch, just to spite." he added facetiously.

Donovan shook her head with a resigned sigh. "As long as you feel up to it. Promise you'll back off if you're not feeling too cheery."

Lestrade leveled his sergeant with a perfectly sober look. "Donovan, Mr. Cunningham is in the hosptial. It's the safest place I can be right now."

"Don't talk like that." Donovan said reprimandingly.

"You know... just in case." Lestrade grinned, shrugging on his jacket.

* * *

"Sherlock-... Sherlock, dammit, stop moving!" John exclaimed, exasperated as he tried to examine how much damage Sherlock took to his throat from where the two Cunninghams had tried to strangle him.

"John, I can't use the microscope if you're in the way." Sherlock whined back. "I'm fine. It doesn't even hur-... _ow_!" Sherlock yelped when John's fingers poked at the bruise on his neck.

"Doesn't hurt, does it? Well let me be the judge of that, will you?" John snapped impatiently. "Look this way."

"Why are you so mad?" Sherlock asked the upset doctor.

John rolled his eyes. "One: you're sick with a cold, recovering from accidentally passing out from exhaustion on a previous case, and you decided to run about chasing down killers. Two: you said it would be a simple, open and shut case. Three: you freaked the Hell out of me by pretending to pass out in the middle of your investigation! Four: you made me look like a right tit in front of everybody when you deliberately knocked over the fruit bowl and made it look like I did it! Five: you almost got strangled to death!" He huffed, crossing his arms. "And you're asking why I'm mad?"

"In my defense, I didn't think the Cunninghams would be so stupid as to try and kill me when the police was right next door." Sherlock shrugged, but humored the little doctor by cooperating with his check-up. "Primitive idiots, impulsive, obviously. Did you see their faces? Monstrous." He mock shuddered, earning himself another glare from John for having moved again.

Five minutes later, John finally put his first-aid kit away. "Well, thats that! Looks like you're going to have a little trouble speaking for a day or two, it's not that bad."

Sherlock raised his eyebrow in an 'I told you so' way. "Of course, John."

"Still, I think you should take it easy for a bit. No strenuous activities, you _are_ still recovering from your cold, after all." John added. Then he scoffed, shaking his head. "'Simple. Open and shut. Nothing to worry about, John.' my arse." he grumbled. "You were supposed to be taking it easy, looks like your plan backfired."

Sherlock sniffed. "On the contrary, John, I think it was a great success. I feel much better already!"

John just sighed and shook his head at his eccentric flatmate as he collapsed into his armchair. "Ugh! Shattered, done in, I've had it! What's another way of saying 'exhausted', Sherlock?"

"Knackered, whacked, drained, bushed, beat. Take your pick." Sherlock threw back absently as he stooped over his microscope.

John snapped his fingers at Sherlock. "Yes. Those." He let his arms fall over the armrests and dropped his head back on the headrest for a few blessedly silent moments. "Tea?"

"Sounds wonderful."

* * *

"Sir, stop wincing." Anthea reprimanded her superior sternly as she applied the last touches of concealer to the skin on Mycroft's cheek where there had been an obvious bruise minutes ago.

Mycroft glanced in the mirror Anthea held up for his scrutiny. There was not a trace of the bruising left. "Wonderful job, Anthea, as always."

Anthea nodded. "Next time, Sir. Try to avoid the anti-espionage activists."

"You know, I don't understand why people get so offended over a little surveilance." Mycroft frowned.

"Inside a foreign embassy during a nationally intense moment, Sir?" Anthea raised her perfectly groomed eyebrow sarcastically. "I couldn't fathom why, either."

"It's not so serious as to push them to send agents to 'rough me up' as they would put it." Mycroft shook his head. "Hot heads, the lot of them."

"Of course, Sir." Anthea took the mirror from Mycroft's hands. "You have a meeting with the Prime Minister in ten minutes."

Mycroft let out a depressed sigh. "I get accosted by agents from a foreign embassy for setting up surveilance and ten minutes later, I have to meet with the Prime Minister and tell him that nothing suspicious came of my surveilance on them? Oh, Anthea, the irony." he groaned melodramatically.

Anthea just sent him a sympathetic look and disappeared.

Mycroft pulled out his phone when he felt it vibrate. Luckily, it had not managed to get stolen or broken in the assault. _Wrapped up the case with Sherlock. At the hospital getting the killers' confessions. You should see this guy, his leg is in a cast that's attatched to the ceiling. It works just as well, if not, **better** than the handcuffs. -Lestrade_

Mycroft chuckled. _You seem unprofessionally pleased by the situation. -MH_

_No of course not! ...Well, maybe a little. He did punch me and made me fall down backwards head-over-heels down the stairs. Not my finest moment. -Lestrade_

_Are you hurt? -MH_

_I got punched and fell down the stairs, Mycroft, I'm fine. -Lestrade_

_Haha. God, that's just wrong! -Lestrade_

_I've got a bit of bruising and a microscopic concussion. Sherlock's got throttled. John said it's not serious, just have to deal with the bruises for a day or two. -Lestrade_

_So... how was your day? -Lestrade_

_To tell you the truth, I've got my own battle wounds to boast of. Just one, though. -MH_

_Oh, God. Did Anthea finally lose control and punch you? -Lestrade_

_Very funny, and no. I cannot tell you who did it, or why, but I've got a throbbing bruise growing on my cheekbone and a meeting with the Prime Minister to attend to in ten minutes. -MH_

_I think a tooth is sore. -MH_

_Is it going to come out? Is it going to break? Because if it is, I want pictures! -Lestrade_

_Believe me, you'd be the last person I'd show it to. -MH_

_I'm hurt. -Lestrade_

_I've got a meeting to attend to. -MH_

_I've got reports to file. -Lestrade_

* * *

Ten minutes later, right in the middle of Mycroft's meeting with the Prime Minister, a picture was sent to Mycroft's phone. A narrow picture taken obviously by phone in a hospital ward of a foot in a cast, suspended in the air by a thin white strand attatching it to the ceiling.

Just the foot. Nothing else.

_It's hilarious. I'm beginning to think my concussion is worse than the doctors said it is. The liars. -Lestrade_

Mycroft had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling or, God forbid, laughing. Anthea sent him a strange look but Mycroft ignored it.

His bruise was feeling a little better now.


	27. Texting

Texting

_John's not back. -SH_

_Leave the window open a fraction. -MH_

_Very funny. John's not a cat, Mycroft! -SH_

_I am aware, Sherlock. He's a grown man, not a bloody pet. Let him be! -MH_

_What if he got kidnapped? -SH_

_Killed? -SH_

_Maybe he's just staying the night at his girlfriend's. -MH_

_Girlfriend? -SH_

_Sarah? -MH_

_Oh. -SH  
_

_It's four o'clock in the morning, you do realize? -MH_

_So? It's four o'clock in the morning, John's not here, and he's not answering his phone! -SH_

_Drop it, Sherlock. -MH_

_I refuse. What if he's bleeding out somewhere? I wouldn't want to have to go to his funeral and say that I let him die because my brother told me to 'drop it'. Everybody will think I dropped something of significant danger. -SH_

_I'm trying to sleep. -MH_

_No rest for the wicked, I thought? -SH_

_Fine, fine. Look. I'm getting up and I'm pulling up security video footages. -MH_

_Yes, like I said, at the girlfriend's. -MH_

_I don't see what John sees in her. -SH_

_I don't see what you see in keeping me awake at bloody four in the morning! -MH_

_Am I keeping you past your bedtime, Mycroft? -SH_

_Behave, or I will be forced to take extreme measures. -MH_

_'Extreme measures' like what? -SH_

_You know I **can** arrange for you to have a curfew. -MH_

_Fine, fine. Shutting up. -SH_

_Thank you. Good night. -MH_

_Good morning, technically. -SH_

_**That** close to making a curfew, Sherlock, don't push it. -MH_

_Shutting up now. -SH_

* * *

_John's gone. -SH_

_Where? -Lestrade_

_Sarah's. -SH_

_Oh my God, that explains the text. -Lestrade_

_What text? -SH_

_Mycroft sent me a text two minutes ago saying that you were being ridiculous and that I shouldn't answer your texts. -Lestrade_

_And yet, here you are. -SH_

_I don't do everything your brother tells me. -Lestrade_

_...? -SH_

_What? -Lestrade_

_I was expecting an annoyed follow-up text telling me to give up the matter and let you sleep. -SH_

_I fell asleep at the Yard, Mycroft's text woke me up. Can't sleep right now. -Lestrade_

_Why go home? You're only going to return in two hours. -SH_

_I'm not. I'm just moving up from the archives to the couch upstairs. Too much trouble to go home. -Lestrade_

_What were you doing in the archives? -SH_

_Research. Investigation. -Lestrade_

_They have proper hours for that. -SH_

_Arn't any windows underground. Lost the time. -Lestrade_

_Fair point. -SH_

_... -SH_

_...? -SH_

_Hello? -SH_

_Lestrade, you there? -SH_

_You fell asleep on me. How rude. -SH_

_... -SH_

_Bored. -SH_

* * *

_John. -SH_

_What? -John_

_Finally! ! ! -SH_

_What, Sherlock? -John_

_I've been trying to get in contact with you for the last few hours! Where are you? -SH_

_Nevermind about that! Mycroft's got a search party out, you need to come back to Baker Street at once to convince him he's being ridiculous. I think he's taking your disappearance personally. -SH_

_Nice try Sherlock. Mycroft told you where I am and Lestrade can back him up. -John_

_What do you mean? -SH_

_They both sent me texts. Mycroft at four o'clock and Lestrade around four twenty. Said you were being silly and keeping everybody up at God awful hours. Knock it off. -John_

_... Damn them. -SH_

_Yeah. -John_

_Goodnight. -John_

_Morning. -SH_

_Fine, morning. Will you sleep? -John_

_... Fine. -SH_

_Thank you. -John_

* * *

_Do you have a network going on behind my back, Mycroft? -SH_

_You know better than to ask that, Sherlock. -MH_

_I can care less about the state of government, Mycroft. I meant, involving Lestrade and John! -SH_

_I have no idea what you mean. -MH_

_You texted both John and Lestrade about me and Lestrade texted John about me too! -SH_

_... Oh, no. You're sulking about the fact that you miss John when he leaves and Lestrade and I will not humor you. How quaint. -MH_

_I do not miss him. I got annoyed when I needed my phone. -SH_

_Yes, and you'd spend the rest of the night texting away in your anger instead of accomplishing whatever you needed with your phone. -MH_

_... -MH_

_You always run when you know I'm right, Sherlock. -MH_

* * *

_Gregory. -MH_

_Yeah? -Lestrade_

_My apologies, I did not want you to fall asleep and drown in your coffee cup. -MH_

_And making my phone vibrate every few minutes is the best idea you can come up with to keep me awake? -Lestrade_

_If you had dropped that cup, you would've had to rewrite a whole day's worth of paperwork. -MH_

_Point taken. Suitably grateful. -Lestrade_

_You're welcome. -MH_

_Are you watching me? -Lestrade_

_I'm not. Anthea is. -MH_

_Why is Anthea? -Lestrade_

_Anthea is making sure everything is running smoothly and that Sherlock is not trying to coerce you into 'drug's busting' Sarah's. I'm in a meeting. -MH_

_Boring over here too. -Lestrade_

_Why are you texting in a meeting? Shouldn't you be listening? Or spinning your political spiderwebs? -Lestrade_

_But it is ever so tedious! I can think of a hundred and one better things I can be doing with my time. -MH_

_Suck it up, Mycroft. -Lestrade_

* * *

_Help! Sherlock's gone bonkers! -John_

_What's he done? -Lestrade_

_I don't quite know how to explain it. I think he's trying to tidy the flat. He's not having much success. -John_

_Sherlock? Tidying the flat? Don't move, John! Don't even breathe! I'll be right there... with a camera... and maybe a firetruck and an ambulance! -Lestrade_

_Seriously, what is he doing? -John_

_I don't know! Why don't you ask him? -Lestrade_

_I'm kind of scared to go in right now. Has he ever tried to clean up before? -John_

_Never. Don't make a noise and don't let him know you're there, you'll scare him off. -Lestrade_

_Will you please stop talking about him as if he's a rare, endangered species? -John_

_A cleaning up Sherlock? John, he's not an endangered species, not at all! He's just never been discovered before, much less caught on tape. -Lestrade_

_You are a strange one. -John_

_Sherlock's tidying up, and you think I'm strange? -Lestrade_

* * *

_Your Honour, at 14:32, September 14, Sherlock Holmes was witnessed in his flat at Baker Street... **cleaning**. -Lestrade_

_I've got proof. -Lestrade_

_Does the attorney wish to question the witness? -Lestrade_

_How? And why did this incident come about Inspector Lestrade? -MH_

_How? It began with a solitary night at Baker Street and the grave realization that Mister Holmes would spend the night in a cold, empty flat. -Lestrade_

_And why was Mister Holmes alone at Baker Street on that night, Inspector? -MH_

_Because, Sir, his flatmate Dr. John Watson was spending the night away. -Lestrade_

_As to how the incident came about, Mister Sherlock Holmes had begun a process of elimination on the differences between him and Ms. Sarah. Besides the obvious difference in genders, and their occupations, Mister Sherlock Holmes realized a stark difference between his flat at 221b Baker Street and her home. -Lestrade_

_And what was that, Inspector? -MH_

_The interior, Mister Holmes, the quaint, always tidy, homely flat of Ms. Sarah. And Mister Sherlock Holmes speculated that Dr. Watson preferred staying at Ms. Sarah's home where he wouldn't have to trample on the papers littering the floor of Baker Street, accidentally knock about the chemical lab growing on their kitchen counter, or make acquaintence with the head in the fridge. -Lestrade_

_The defendant still retains the head in his fridge? -MH_

_Same one since several months back, your Honour. They don't talk about it often and neither do they, God forbid, touch it. He's not a very 'touchy-feel-y' neighbor is he? -Lestrade_

_Not by any stretch of imagination. -MH_

_Your Honour, have you ever known the defendant - Mister Sherlock Holmes - to be a man who aims to please? -Lestrade_

_Never, I admit. -MH_

_Have you ever seen him struggling so earnestly to please as he is now? -Lestrade_

_I confess I have not. -MH_

_And yet he is, for one Dr. John Watson. Your Honour, I rest my case. -Lestrade_

_Your cue, Mycroft. -Lestrade_

_This jury finds the defendant, Sherlock Holmes, on charges of personal affection and emotional dependence... guilty as charged. His sentence will be an eternity of teasing and the verbal ribbing of his older brother, Mycroft Holmes, and from his longest standing friend, Gregory Lestrade. This court is adjourned. -MH_

_Haha. -Lestrade  
_

_Congratulations, Inspector, it was a case hard fought, and well won. I owe you a drink, in the very least. -MH_

_Can we celebrate the loss of Sherlock's emotional virginity tomorrow night? Sherlock caught me and John spying on him tidying up the flat and something exploded. We're all being checked out at the hospital, just in case. -Lestrade_

_I'm sure I can speed up the dignostic process. -MH_

_I'm touched. -Lestrade_

_My car will be around shortly to pick you up. -MH_

_I'll be waiting. -Lestrade_

_Sherlock actually likes John, alot. It's going to take a while to wrap my head around it. -Lestrade_

_You are not alone in that aspect. -MH_

_What if he, in the off-chance, like-likes John? -Lestrade_

_That, Inspector, is a whole 'nother can of worms. -MH_

_I'm kind of scared now. -Lestrade_

_As you should be. The world will fall the moment Sherlock Holmes falls in love. -MH_


	28. Criminal

Criminal

Based almost entirely on The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton. (One of my favorite stories)

_Got a case, will you come? -Lestrade_

_No. Promised John I'd take on a private case. -SH_

_Promised John? -Lestrade_

_To help a damsel in distress. Damn him. -SH_

_Sounds interesting. He's never demanded you take a case before. -Lestrade_

_He didn't. The client was all sobbing and moaning of her misfortune, click of a switch and John was in doctor-mode, patting her shoulder and coddling her. He was all 'Sherlock, look at her, you've got to help her!' ...Damn him. -SH_

_Well, he does have very intimidating puppy-dog eyes when he wants them. What's the case, then? -Lestrade_

_Serial blackmail. I would have you arrest him but he's smart. He doesn't give me a single opening. Preys on vulnerable, naive women. If John had his way, he'd put a bullet into him without a second thought. -SH_

_Real gentleman, isn't he? So what are you going to do about it? -Lestrade_

_Let's pretend you didn't ask that. -SH_

* * *

"Sherlock, I still think this is a really, really bad idea." John whispered in hushed tones as he and Sherlock crouched in the shadows outside Milverton's house.

"You always think that." Sherlock shot back equally as quiet.

"But to engage yourself with Milverton's maid? Isn't that a bit much?" John hissed. "Marriage, Sherlock, isn't just a legal bond! That poor girl!"

Sherlock shrugged back. "It's not like I did it because it was entertaining, John. You must play the cards you have the best you can. Besides, there's another man who's got his eye on her anyway. Best guess; they'll be off tying the knot in a few months and she'll forget all about me. Splendid, isn't it?"

"Right, sitting in a serial blackmailer's back yard and discussing your love life moments before we break into Milverton's house to steal his blackmail material." John huffed. "Splendid. I'm waiting on your signal, by the way."

"You're not coming." Sherlock said firmly.

"The Hell I'm not, Sherlock!" John retorted. At Sherlock's look. "Sherlock, I swear to God, I'm going right down and I'm going to sic Donovan and Anderson on your heels if you don't let me come."

Sherlock was silent for a moment before letting out a defeated sigh. "Don't blame me if we end up sharing a prison cell."

"I already share a flat with you, Sherlock." John grumbled back.

Sherlock huffed. "Well, come on, then."

They snuck up to the door and Sherlock picked the lock. "Do you have quiet shoes?" Sherlock asked.

"I've got sneakers on." John replied.

"Perfect, and a mask?" John snagged a dishrag as they passed through the kitchen and draped it around the bottom half of his face. "I believe you are a natural, John." Sherlock smiled under his scarf, evidently pleased.

John noticed a security camera in the hall and tugged Sherlock back. He pointed at the camera. "What do we do now, then?"

Just as soon as he asked the question, the red light signalling that the camera was operational flickered out.

"Mycroft." Sherlock sighed in both annoyance and relief. "Come on."

They snuck into Milverton's study and found his safe. "Stand over there, John. Tell me if you see or hear something." Sherlock ordered him as he knelt by the safe in preparation to crack it. Several minutes later, John heard the click of the safe opening quietly and after a few minutes of quiet scavenging, Sherlock tapped his shoulder from behind. "We're done here, come on."

Just as they were moving toward the door, they heard a noise. They froze, then John blanched, backpedalling. "Back, back, back!" he chanted frantically, only managing to pull Sherlock behind the window drapes moments before the study's door opened. A second later, the bright lights flickered on and John flinched slightly.

They smelled cigarette smoke. 'Milverton' Sherlock mouthed silently. John bit his lip and nodded. Milverton was pacing back and forth across the room, his shadow moving over the curtain just in front of the two intruders' faces. Unable to stand it any longer, John tentatively reached out and parted the curtains a fraction and peeked out, he could feel Sherlock press up against his shoulder to peer out of the same crack.

Milverton sat down in an armchair just as they peered out, but luckily his back was facing toward them. He was smoking and reading something. He might be there for a long time. If that wasn't bad enough, John's eyes caught sight of something and his heart sank.

The safe was still open an inch. Any moment now, Milverton would look up and see it. He felt Sherlock's hand slip into his and give a reassuring squeeze.

Fortunately, Milverton never did see that his safe was broken into and burglarized. There was a soft knock at the door. Sherlock and John exchanged inquisitive glances. "You're late." Milverton said as he stood and opened the door. They heard the gentle rustle of skirts brushing against furniture as the woman approached.

"You bastard, you ruined my life!" the woman exclaimed with a quiet fury. John glanced at Sherlock and once again parted the curtains a crack.

The woman wore a hat low over her face so that they could not see her face fully but she was beautiful, that was obvious. "You did that to yourself." Milverton returned coolly. "I-..."

"Shut up, you leech! This ends, now!" The woman hissed and the rest of his sentence was cut off by a sharp 'crack' that rivaled thunder in the quiet night. The woman had pulled out a pistol from her purse and promptly emptied the clip into the blackmailer. John almost dashed out to stop the madness but Sherlock's steely grip on his sleeve grounded him. "See how you like that!" The woman panted to the dead body of her tormenter before stamping the heel of her dainty little shoe into his face.

Then, as silent as a ghost, the avenger drifted out of the room and out of the house.

As soon as all noises stilled in the house, Sherlock darted out from behind the curtain with John quick on his heels. John stooped over the body but there was nothing that could be done for the blackmailer. Sherlock ran to the safe and pulled out all the papers inside, depositing them into Milverton's ashtray and lit them on fire.

Then, he ran by John, grabbing his flatmate in passing. "Come on! Over the garden wall!"

People were beginning to gather outside Milverton's home, attracted by the noise inside and someone had spotted them as they ran. Sherlock reached the wall first and vaulted himself over the top with John following. Just just as John was twisting himself over the top, he felt an iron grip of their pursuer on his ankle.

With a wonderfully military-trained kick, he sent the man tumbling backwards clutching his nose and yelling in pain. Without the grip on his ankle, John tumbled the rest of the way over the wall and landed flat onto his face on the other side, stunned. In a moment, Sherlock was there and pulling him up, dragging him away from the scene.

Due to the blood pumping in their ears and the adrenaline coursing through their veins, they didn't stop running until they reached home.

Then they gasped for breath, leaning against the wall like they had after their first cross-London chase after the cabbie, shared a glance, and laughed. Hysterically. For a long, long time. That is, until they had the misfortune of rousing Mrs. Hudson from her sleep and were promptly chased upstairs with a broom.

They collapsed in the sitting room, still giggling like schoolgirls. They shared a glance. "Tea?" John offered.

"Dear God, sounds Heavenly."

* * *

A few hours later, when morning came, Lestrade entered the flat looking utterly solemn and serious. "Morning, Sherlock, did you wrap up your case?"

"Well, I'm not too busy to listen to you, I suppose, if that's what you're asking." Sherlock returned loftily.

"Interesting new case we've got down at Hampstead." Lestrade cleared his throat significantly.

John stiffened slightly. All evidence of their crimes had been meticulously destroyed, Sherlock saw to that. "And what is that?" John's flatmate asked, feigning interest.

"A murder." Lestrade crossed his arms grimly. "Of Charles Milverton, a blackmailer, we've had our eye on him for a while now. Though we've never gotten any evidence to arrest him." John was visibly fidgeting with his breakfast now and biting his lip, looking everywhere but the copper. "It seems our murderer also took the time to destroy all of Milverton's blackmail materials. We think the only reason the criminals broke into the house was to destroy the evidence."

"'Criminals'?" Sherlock asked, now feigning astonishment. "Plural?"

Lestrade nodded. "Eyewitnesses said two men. We've got samples of both pairs of footprints and descriptions of one of the two." John turned to stare out of the window miserably, knowing his minutes of freedom were numbered. "Bit small but quick, blonde hair, blue eyes, pronounced eyebags, and a dishcloth over his mouth." John's heart fell into the heels of his feet.

"Rather vague, isn't it?" said Sherlock with half a smile. "For all we know from that description, it could be John!" he remarked coolly, John almost choked, eyes bugging.

"True." Lestrade chuckled back good-naturedly. "It could be John."

"Well, I'm afraid I can't help you with this one, Lestrade." Sherlock sighed, faux-apologetic. "Truth is, I know of Milverton, couldn't stand the man! It's propably some personal revenge for the blackmail. He had it coming, unfortunate as his death was. I refuse to hunt down his killer."

Lestrade grimaced. "It's looking more and more like another cold case for the archives, doesn't it?" he sighed, shrugging his shoulders helplessly. "Well, if I can't convince you to help..." And he walked out. "Good day, gentlemen."

Sherlock grinned at John when Lestrade had left. "Oh, don't at me like that!" he chuckled.

"I thought my life was ending." John groaned. "I can't believe Lestrade didn't make the connection!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course he did, John, that's why he came! He also know's you were the one who shot the cabbie. Despite my declarations, Lestrade isn't a total idiot."

"But-... but why, then?" John asked, confused.

"Mycroft turned off the security cameras, Lestrade feigns ignorance on our involvement, they both know that we didn't kill Milverton, so they leave it alone." Sherlock shrugged. "It's just how they work."

"You mean they just stand back and let you commit crimes?" John asked, incredulous.

"No, they fight it with all their might, but they will compromise when they know the law will continue to let criminals get away." Sherlock grinned. "And that's where I come in." Then he added in afterthought. "Though, if I overdo something, Lestrade _will_ lock me up for a few days... and Mycroft will willingly let him."

"Oh..." John nodded slowly in understanding, amazed at the three men who would bend or break the law to acheive honourable goals. "But... Sherlock, who do you think that woman was?" he asked about the killer.

Sherlock tapped a few keys on John's laptop, bringing up several pictures of a gorgeous female celeberity on google images. John recognized the woman immediately. "No... you're not serious!" He turned a wide-eyed look at Sherlock.

Sherlock just smiled back and raised a finger to his lips.

* * *

A/N: Seriously though, if you haven't read the Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton, do so now. It's got some slashy fanservice in there, I swear Doyle did it on purpose! haha


	29. Helpless

Helpless

Despite Sherlock's constant advice of 'Come on! _Think_!', Lestrade never really stops doing it. When he stops to think about it, he can't really remember a moment when he wasn't thinking anything. And he thought now, even as he sat at home in his sitting room sofa with his laptop on his knees.

He was currently checking his e-mails absently while some small part of his mind is reviewing details of the ongoing serial bomber case.

He knows that Scotland Yard's run up against a wall and that there's nothing he can do until Sherlock drops in a text and an answer to this whole mess. All he can do is wait for it. So he waits, and he contemplates leads that have run cold, suspects that don't seem to exist, future victims that are picked at random...

He groaned and rubbed his eyes wearily as he clicked on his bookmarked link to Sherlock's site 'The Science of Deduction'. He likes to keep an eye on the site in the off-chance that a case may intrude on police investigations and he needed to put in a call to the detective in charge to warn him about Sherlock.

What he was not expecting was finding out that Sherlock had arranged a meeting with the 'Bad Samaritan', Moriarty.

"Aw, Christ, Sherlock!" Lestrade groaned, jumping up and grabbing his jacket.

* * *

"Fucking idiot! I'm going to kill him." Lestrade muttered to himself under his breath as he dismounted his car and slammed the door shut, shoving his hands in his pockets as he marched toward the pool. Throughout the drive and even as he arrived on the scene, Lestrade complained and cursed Sherlock's stupidity, but he came.

He pulled out his phone and texted Mycroft about what was going on in afterthought. Better safe than sorry, just in case they needed the backup. Mycroft's responding text was clipped and brief, a tell that he was either very busy, stressed, or annoyed. But he did promise that he'd have someone keep an eye on the CCTV.

With that small reassurance, Lestrade squared his shoulders and entered the building.

It seemed to be deserted, that was a given considering the fact that it was late. Lestrade pushed open a door with a resounding 'kachunk!' He winced but continued on in search of Sherlock. He disliked swimming pools, he reminded himself of the fact when the overwhelming smell of chlorine filled his nostrils, making him scrunch up his nose in disgust.

He heard a noise in the distance and stopped dead in his tracks, listening. Someone was talking. Sherlock? Lestrade silently glided over to the pool and opened the door a fraction, peeking in quietly. Didn't want to set off the serial bomber by popping up so suddenly.

He could only see Sherlock, and, by the looks of it, Sherlock was the only one there. The consulting detective was turning around by the pool, sharp eyes darting around in search of his prey. He held something small up in his hand. "All your little puzzles, making me dance. All to distract me from this."

What was that in Sherlock's hand? Before he could speculate, he felt something hard poke him in the back between his shoulder blades. He stiffened. A gun. "Not quite the best view is it?" An unfamiliar voice said to him coolly, a hand touched his right shoulder firmly. "Come with me quietly Inspector, where the seating arrangements are first class."

Lestrade was told to stand slowly and to place his hands behind his head without a sound or a bullet was making a hole in his chest between his collarbones. The hand on his shoulder guided him backwards a few steps and turned him in a wide arc so that he was facing away from the pool. His captor never gave him a chance to catch him off-guard.

The gun increased pressure between his shoulders silently, nudging him forward. They walked in that fashion away from the scene Sherlock was playing out. "Turn here." The man behind him said, the hand on Lestrade's shoulder guiding him gently to the right. They ascended a flight of stairs and walked into an observation deck.

The man wasn't joking when he said the seating arrangements were first class.

There were two other men already on the deck, both held sniper rifles at the ready. "Gentlemen," Lestrade's captor spoke, "I brought you a visitor."

"You're just in time." One of the two men waved at them with a dark smile.

Lestrade was guided into the room and seated in an obnoxiously blue plastic chair, one hand handcuffed to a leg so he would not move. They all had a grand view of the pool, of Sherlock, of Mori-... Wait-... John?

"What the bloody Hell?" Lestrade couldn't bite back fast enough.

"Quiet." The other three snapped irately as they crouched by the window.

"Evening." John's voice was flat. "This is a turn up, isn't it, Sherlock? Bet you never saw this coming."

Everybody could hear it, the choppy words, the breaks between the disjointed sentences. "John, what the Hell-...?"

"What... would you like me-... to make him say-... next?" John forced the words out as he opened the jacket and revealed his extra baggage. "Gottle 'o gear. Gottle 'o gear." Moriarty was taunting them.

"Stop it." Sherlock approached closer, eyes darting every which direction.

"Nice touch, this... the pool... where little Carl died." John dictated tonelessly. "I stopped him..." He paused, taking a moment to compose himself. "I can stop John Watson too..." He glanced down at the laser on his chest. "...stop his heart."

It felt surreal, like he was watching a movie, but Lestrade knew it wasn't. He watched in silence as Sherlock and John conversed-... no, Moriarty spoke and Sherlock listened. There was so much at stake and he couldn't to a thing without making the situation worse. He glared at the man who had a red laser light pinned on John's torso. Then he looked around. But where was Moriarty? Where was he hiding?

As if heeding his mental cue, the sound of a door opening and falling shut echoed around the pool. "I gave you my number." A voice crooned out. "Thought you might call." Sherlock turned to see a man in a stylish Westwood suit staunter leisurely out of the shadows. "Is that a British army L9A1 in your pocket?" The man asked tauntingly. "Or are you just pleased to see me?"

Sherlock pulled out the gun from the waistband of his pants and pointed it at him. "Both."

Lestrade winced when the action caused one of the snipers to narrow his eyes and finger his trigger almost soothingly. Lestrade bit his lip. "Hey, mind easing up on the trigger there, mate?" He whispered tensely. The man spared him a fish-eyed glance and ignored him.

"Jim Moriarty." Moriarty introduced himself. "Hi~!" Lestrade could amost feel the temperature in the room plummet, one of the snipers shuddered and it wasn't from the cold. "Jim?" Moriarty continued, circling the edge of the pool. "Jim from the hospital?" He grimaced a little. "Did I really make such a fleeting impression? But then, I suppose, that was rather the point." He turned to Sherlock with an air of finalty.

Sherlock turned his face toward John slightly, his eyes never leaving Moriarty. "Don't be silly, some else is holding the rifle." Moriarty drawled. Lestrade sent a sideways glance at the three snipers and the one who had brought him in stared back in a threatening way that meant 'don't try anything funny'. "I don't like getting my hands dirty."

Lestrade bit his lip as Moriarty spun his fantastical words like golden thread, pulling, drawing Sherlock into his web. The longer he had to speak, the more chance there was that Sherlock couldn't get out of there. The power of words, Lestrade had once worked with a man who could dissolve a tense hostage situation by just a convincing heart-to-heart phone call with the captors. He felt a little twinge of pain at the memory of Meadows.

But what could he do? He couldn't do a damn thing.

He was shaken out of his thoughts when Sherlock had said 'people have died' because that seemed to be exactly where they were headed. "Well that's what people _**do**_!" Moriarty exploded so suddenly with a manic gleam in his eye.

There was a faint 'boom' of someone jumping, startled, and accidentally closing a door or something, Lestrade wasn't sure. And, by the way the three assassins glanced at each other and shook their heads, they didn't either.

"I will stop you." Sherlock's low growl almost couldn't be heard from the distance.

"No you won't." Moriarty chirped back, point-blank, face impassive.

Sherlock ignored him to look at John. "You alright?"

When John didn't answer immediately, Moriarty glided up behind. "You can talk, Johnny boy, go ahead." And God was Lestrade glad to be in here with the three snipers! At least they wern't so disturbing and kept their distance.

John nodded back at Sherlock stiffly.

Sherlock extended the had that held the small object Lestrade had seen earlier. "Take it." he spat.

"Hm?" Moriarty's eyes glistened with curiosity. "Oh, that! The missile plans!" He dragged out the 's' like a snake as he accepted the object, which Lestrade now saw to be a flash drive, and brought it to his lips briefly. He seemed to contemplate it thoughtfully before looking back up at Sherlock. "Bo-ring! I could've got them anywhere." With a flick of his wrist, the flash drive skipped across the surface of the pool's water and sunk into the blue.

John, brave soldier that he was, snagged that opportunity to dart forward and lock his arms around Moriarty's neck. "Sherlock, run!" he grunted desperately.

Sherlock startled, but did not step back.

Moriarty's snipers frowned, eyebrows pulling toward the center of their foreheads in concentration. Lestrade held his breath.

"Oh! Good! Very good!" Moriarty's words bled into slight chuckles, apparently unruffled at the turned tables.

"Your sniper." John hissed. "Pull that trigger Mister Moriarty and we both go up." he warned.

"He's sweet, I can see why you like having him around. But then, people get so sentimental about their pets." He turned slightly in John's grip to say to the soldier tauntingly. "So touchingly loyal. But- _oops_!" He jerked a little and went still. "You've rather shown your hand there, Dr. Watson."

A red flicker of light blinked into existance and danced on Sherlock's forehead. John froze, paling. Sherlock, realizing his predicament, shook his head slightly and John let go, raising his hands to show he meant no harm.

"Gotcha!" Moriarty crooned cheerfully before smoothing his suit down primly. "Westwood." Lestrade almost rolled his eyes. Who bloody cares?

"Do you know what happens when you don't leave me alone, Sherlock, to you?" Moriarty continued as if he had never been interrupted.

"Oh, let me guess, I get killed." Sherlock replied contritely.

"'Killed'?" Moriarty mock gasped and grimaced. "Uh, no, don't be obvious. I mean, I'm gonna kill you anyway, someday. I don't want to rush it, though. I'm saving it up for something special, no, no, no, no, no. If you don't stop prying..." Moriarty looked Sherlock up an down like he was sizing him up. "...I'll _burn_ you." Lestrade sucked in a shuddering breath, feeling persperiation break out on his forehead as goosebumps rose on his arms. "I will burn-... the _heart_ out of you!" It was frightening that Moriarty could be so maliciously vicious one moment and casually innocent the next.

"I've been reliably informed that I don't have one." Sherlock ground out and Lestrade had to wonder who told him such a ridiculous thing.

"But we both know that's not quite true." Moriarty hummed back. He let the words hang silently before shrugging. "Well, I'd better be off! So nice to have had a proper chat."

Sherlock shifted. "What if I was to shoot you now, right now?" he asked contemplatively, stopping Moriarty from leaving.

"Well then you can cherish the look of surprise on my face." Moriarty made an exaggerated shocked expression. "Cause I'd be surprised, Sherlock, really I would. And just a teensy bit... disapponted. And of course you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long." Seeing the end to their confrontation, he shifted and began moving away slowly. "Ciao, Sherlock Holmes." With that, he walked out of sight towards the doors.

Sherlock carefully followed his every move with his gun. "Catch. You. Later." he intoned.

"No you won't!" Moriarty trilled back and the door fell shut heavily.

Lestrade almost let out a sigh of relief and saw two of the three snipers relax visibly. But none of them moved to stand. They just crouched there, frozen. Something was wrong...

... Something unexpected.

Sherlock dropped his gun and practically tore John's jacket off, vaulting it with all his might away from them before retrieving his gun and chasing after Moriarty. Good ol' John, he staggered toward the shower stalls, his legs finally giving out from under him. Lestrade had to give it to him, he'd probably have pissed himself or worse if he was in that situation.

Sherlock returned to check on his flatmate and waited for John to recover. Lestrade was almost pulling his hair out in frustration but resisted the urge to shout for them to get the Hell out of there! With a slight heave, John tried to force himself to his feet when a laser found his chest again and he let out a small, startled groan.

"Sorry boys!" Moriarty crooned, flaunting back into the room. "I'm soooo changeable! It is a weakness with me, but to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness. You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't." Moriarty shook his head. "I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind!"

Lestrade did not see the small glance Sherlock sent John's way, or the responding nod of assent, but he didn't need to. There was only one way to make the best of a bad situation... it was to make it even worse.

"And probably my answer has crossed yours." Sherlock responded, pointing his gun at Moriarty.

Moriarty just smirked at the recieving end of the gun, challenging him. Then the barrel descended slowly, aiming lower, at the bomb. Moriarty raised his eyebrow, head tilting, still smiling as the moment seemed to stretch.

And then...

Lestrade squeezed his eyes shut and shielded his head with his free hand, preparing himself for the oncoming blast, bracing himself for the ear-splitting explosion.

But the noise that assaulted his ears was of a much different sort. Even though the 'Stayin' Alive' ringtone was quiet, it was deafening in the silence. Lestrade hesitantly popped one eye open, and then he other. He raised his head and saw two of the snipers exchanging mortified glances and biting back nervous giggles, the other blonde one who had brought Lestrade in was stoically poker-faced like his employer.

Moriarty let it play for a moment or two before groaning and rolling his eyes in exasperation. "Do you mind if I get that?"

"Oh, no. Please! You've got the rest of your life." Sherlock snarked back.

Moriarty answered his phone. "Hello...?"

"Huh, bloody anti-climatic, hey?" Lestrade grunted more to himself than anybody else.

"I hear you, mate." One of the two less professional snipers groaned back.

"Unexpected, I'll give him that." The other chuckled, nodding slightly.

"Quiet." Was all the blonde contributed sternly and everybody was dutifully silenced.

Moriarty finished his call and hung up. "Wrong day to die." he declared like he decided whether he lived or died on a whim.

"You had a better offer?" Sherlock asked and Lestrade inwardly begged for him to just 'let it the bloody Hell go!'

Moriarty just stared back in reply and walked away to set up a different deal... and he said something about 'shoes'. This time the three snipers moved out of their crouches and Lestrade let out a breath as they packed up their rifles.

"What's this, Sebastian?" A horrifyingly familar voice asked boredly from behind Lestrade. "You can't pick up strays, we talked about this!"

Against his better instincts, Lestrade craned his head to glanced behind him. _Moriarty. _"Oh... bugger." Was all he could say without pioneering into his more creative expletives or screaming 'No! Get away from me you psychotic maniac!' Because that would go over really well...

"Found him loitering around." The blonde, Sebastian, drawled back, drawing out a pack of cigarettes and lighting one. "Didn't want him to get in the way."

Moriarty circled him with steady, even steps until they were facing each other. And suddenly Moriarty leaned in close, examining his face, causing him to recoil as far as his handcuffed wrist would allow. "I know you." he smiled. "I remember."

Lestrade could only frown in confusion and offer an intelligent "Huh?"

Moriarty laid a hand firmly on his shoulder and looked him in the eye, Lestrade blinked but didn't look away despite how unnerved he was. "Tell Big Brother not to be such a spoil sport. His brother's much more fun to play games with!" And with that said, he was gone. "Leave him." he ordered his men frivoulously, motioning for them to follow.

And then they were gone.

Lestrade let out a huge breath and sagged in his seat, letting his head fall on the chair's back. After a moment, he finally decided to get up and slip the handcuffs free of the chair's leg and made his way down to the pool.

Sherlock and John had gone by that time, they seemed eager to leave the place. Understandibly so.

Lestrade gazed down the length of the pool and stared at the innocuous lump of explosives at the other end. "Gregory?"

Lestrade jumped a foot, heart hammering in his ears as he spun around. "Mycroft!" he exclaimed, sighing. "Jesus! You scared me! Thought I was going to piss myself just then!" Yes, right now he didn't care about saying such vulgar things in Mycroft's presence.

"Are you alright?" The umbrella weilding government agent asked him seriously.

"What? Yeah, of course!" Lestrade responded a little too quickly to be believeable. What did Mycroft want him to say? That he came to be Sherlock's backup, got caught, had to watch the whole confrontation while handcuffed to a bloody chair, and be helpless to do anything? "How's Sherlock and John?"

"They caught a cab and are on their way back to Baker Street. They don't yet know of our presence here." Mycroft shrugged. "After we found out there was a hostage situation going on, we could not make a move. My apologies."

Lestrade shook his head. "You're here, that's all I could've hoped for." He glanced at the glowing pool. "As for the flash drive thingy you mentioned losing, it's-..." He pointed vaguely and grimaced. "...In there."

Mycroft turned toward the pool, raising his eyebrows. "Ah."

Lestrade shrugged sheepishly. "Sorry?"

"Not to worry, nothing a little candle wax can't smooth over." Mycroft sighed.

Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "'Candle wax'?"

"Sculptors in the days of old, smoothed over the flaws in their marble masterpieces with candle wax and nobody was the wiser." Mycroft explained slowly. "Easy fix."

Lestrade nodded as he and Mycroft continued staring out at the rippling pool with a bomb sitting across from them. "Who is Jim Moriarty, Mycroft?" He asked at length. "He said he remembered me."

Mycroft sent him a sharp glance. "You two conversed?" he asked, a touch of concern undertoning his words.

"Careful, Mycroft, so close to caring." Lestrade warned facetiously, then he dropped the feeble attempt at humor. "Well, I just sat there, and he kind of talked at me."

Mycroft eyed him for a prolonged moment before sighing and turning his gaze back to the pool. "Do you remember that incident when you were kidnapped with Sherlock?"

Lestrade frowned a little. "Well, Mycroft, there've been a few of those..."

"The first one." Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "When you were trapped down a well and almost drowned."

A look of recognition lit in Lestrade's eyes. "Oh... that one."

"Jim Moriarty, still an amateur criminal at that time. Entertaining games, I admit, but flawed in his planning, too many loopholes. Not this time. He came prepared, knowing what to expect." Mycroft frowned, a deep-set anger sparking in his glare before glazing over. "It seems that I am once again helpless in my attempts to best him at his trivial games." He shrugged with a sigh.

"He said for me to tell you not to be such a spoil sport and that Sherlock was a better playmate than you were." Lestrade told him. "What does that mean?"

Mycroft shook his head. "It means that Sherlock will be targeted, I'm afraid."

"Well, that's not good." Lestrade frowned. "This Moriarty... he's insane."

"I assure you, Gregory. I am well aware."

Lestrade responded only by muttering a frustrated curse and lashing out at the wall before stalking off. Mycroft did not watch him go. Misery seemed to loved company as much as helplessness seemed to repel it. He pulled out his phone.

"Anthea? How soon can you prepare a foolproof contingency plan to back up Sherlock's involvement with Jim Moriarty?"

"Already on it, Sir."


	30. Lonely

Lonely

"Sir, you should get on home." Lestrade looked up from his desk to see Donovan standing in his office doorway as she shrugged her jacket on in preparation to leave, probably going home with Anderson, only plausible reason why _he_ was still here after hours.

"Yeah, thanks." Lestrade grinned back wryly. "Sometimes, I don't know why you even bother reminding me."

"Your genes repel the very thought of leaving work." Donovan rolled her eyes humourously. "It's not too late yet, might as well take the night off with Mrs. Lestrade." She sent him a winning smile and walked off.

Lestrade blinked once... and then again. _Ohh, ...right_. Some part of his brain reminded him of the fact that nobody in the Yard, Dimmock excluded, knew about Eva leaving. Not that they would, though, it's none of their business.

Funny, he had taken it for granted that Sherlock would've announced something naturally inappropriate about his private life and that the other Yarders would put two and two together. But recently, he's been behaving a bit... just a little bit. So, no, word hadn't gotten around.

Besides, he was still wearing his ring...

"Sod this." he grumbled at his half-written report and twisted the golden band off of his finger, dropping it into his desk drawer and locking it shut before shuffling out of his office. He needed to get out more.

Which is why he now found himself being shoved none too lightly against the wall of an alley an hour-and-a-half later and assaulted by hot, drunken lips of some decent-looking bloke. He didn't care that his partner was male, he'd realized he was bi after a drunken one-night stand he'd had after a tiff with Eva. That was the first and last time he'd been with a man, he had been married at the time after all.

They'd met at the pub-... well, Lestrade had been on his first drink and minding his own business when this man had the audacity to barrel into him, spilling both their drinks, apologized tipsily, and bought them both another.

Which had turned into several drinks...

Which led to the man's hand resting innocently on Lestrade's thigh... which led to the man raising his eyebrows in silent question and Lestrade shrugging in return, and that paved the way to the man leaning dangerously into his personal space and whispering 'My place or yours?'

So where were they? ... Ah, yes. Drunk, in an alley, snogging and feeling each other up, on their way to the stranger's flat.

"So, ...I don't think I caught your name." Lestrade panted as they broke apart for air.

"Who cares right now?" The man grinned and planted another short kiss on his lips like a promise before untangling their limbs and tugging him by the shirtsleeve down the street.

And that worked too...

* * *

Lestrade woke up the next morning to the obnoxious ringing of his phone torturing his ears and, by extent, his brain. He groaned facedown into his pillow and blindly reached out for the damn thing. His fingers hit the bedside nightstand with a 'thunk' but he did not find his phone where it usually was... it was probably still in his trouser pockets. He'd been known to lose his phone that way many times. "Shit!"

He blinked his eyes open blearily and sluggishly slipped his top half off the bed to reach his trousers and pulled out his phone. He pressed the 'accept call' button and rolled back onto the bed on his back. "M-Mycroft?" he whispered hoarsely.

_"Gregory? Are you quite alright? You don't sound too good."_ Lestrade blinked at the ceiling for a moment.

"I-... um." He sat up and noticed a pair of jeans on the floor that wern't his. Come to think about it, the room did seem to be his either. "Sorry, why did you call?" He was feeling a fair bit slow about now as the fuzzy memories from last night invaded his concentration.

_"I'm sorry for calling so early in the morning, but Sherlock and John have-..." _Lestrade heard footsteps pad quietly toward the room from the hall and looked up to see the stranger peeking in, checking up on him but giving him plenty of privacy. He wore a loose grey T-shirt, a towel wrapped around his waist, and a smaller towel draped over his shoulders to protect them from the water droplets dripping from the tips of his hair. _"...Gregory? Are you there?"_

Lestrade did the first thing that came to mind. He hastily hung up on Mycroft.

"Er-... morning." Lestrade offered politely, clearing his throat self-consciously. Then, as if just remembering that he was still naked, gathered the bedsheets around him with an embarrassed quirk of his lips.

The man just smiled back. "Good morning." Then he nodded his head to the side down the hall. "Shower's open."

Lestrade blinked. "Yeah, thanks." And he sidled past the stranger.

"I'll find you a towel." The man called after him.

"Thanks!"

* * *

"Stop scowling, Mycroft. Your facial muscles will freeze that way." John advised awkwardly as he, Sherlock, and Mycroft walked out of the Yard.

For the first time in their collective lives, it was someone other than Lestrade who let him and Sherlock out of police custody. Donovan and Anderson fought tooth and nail to keep them but Dimmock quickly dropped by and took the reigns.

"Where is he anyway?" John asked. They were in Mycroft's car now and Mycroft hadn't spoken a word, Sherlock was sending his brother tiny glances when he thought the man wasn't looking but also wasn't speaking. John had taken it on himself to give them some noise. "Lestrade, I mean."

Mycroft's already furrowed brows twitched at the mention of the missing copper. "I have no idea." he replied stiffly.

"Sure he does." Sherlock chimed in. Mycroft glared at his younger brother and the consulting detective raised his eyebrows challengingly.

They vaulted into another spell of silence before John cleared his throat. The tension was thick enough to be cut by a knife. "Okay... what's going on?"

"Nothing." Both Holmeses snapped in unison. John raised his eyebrows sardonically. It was the first time he had seen the brothers agree on something. Naturally, it was too good to be true.

Sherlock stared petulantly out of the car window and Mycroft reverted to scowling at his umbrella handle. "So, no answers, then? Wonderful." John sighed.

"We have arrived, Dr. Watson." Mycroft informed icily as the car pulled up at Baker Street.

John practically dove for air and quickly disappeared into the building. Sherlock alighted from the car with more grace and straightened his coat idly as Mycroft closed the door after them. Then he knocked on the window. Mycroft powered down his window and raised his eyebrows at his brother expectantly.

"Stop sulking that somebody else has a place in Lestrade's bed, Mycroft." Sherlock ordered awkwardly. "It's pathetic, even for you."

"Your poor attempts at deduction are even more appalling, Sherlock." Mycroft threw back.

Sherlock frowned briefly before the expression melted away. "Face it, Mycroft, you've been ignoring your crush on Lestrade for years and it's not getting any better." he taunted.

"And how is the domestic life for you, Sherlock? Having fun?" Mycroft smiled back without warmth.

"It is, actually." Sherlock replied bluntly and walked away to prevent himself from seeing Mycroft's completely baffled look.

"What was that all about, then?" John asked when Sherlock entered their shared flat.

"Nothing at all, John." was the nonchalant reply.

* * *

After having washed up, Lestrade was feeling relatively more human. He pulled on yesterday's clothes and wandered into the small flat's kitchen where he heard noise emanating from. Now, all he needed to put things right was... "Coffee?" His host offered with a smile.

"God, yeah." Lestrade groaned appreciatively, accepting the mug and taking a scalding sip.

"Hungover much?" The man chuckled quietly for which Lestrade was endlessly grateful for.

"Uh, yeah... Don't drink much." He shrugged. "I mean, I drink a bit with the friends at work, but I don't usually go to pubs alone."

"I was in luck, then." They fell into a companionable silence as they drank their coffee.

"I'm Greg, by the way." Lestrade said, breaking the silence.

"I'm Alexis... everybody calls me Alex, though." Alex introduced himself.

"Nice to meet you, Alex." Lestrade grinned.

"You too, Greg." Alex chuckled back. Lestrade decided that he liked hearing that laugh, deep and warm, it was the kind of sound that wasn't contagious but it encouraged you to smile.

"Sorry, I should be getting out of your way, shouldn't I?" Lestrade said, gulping down the last of his caffiene and placing his empty mug into the sink.

"You don't have to, really." Alex shrugged. "Is there somewhere you need to be?"

Lestrade made a show of glancing at his watch. "Maybe."

Alex smiled. "Okay, drop by the pub again sometime?" he asked casually.

Lestrade smiled slowly. "Maybe." he repeated with more contemplation behind his reply.

"See you then." Alex walked him out. "You know your way back?"

Lestrade glanced around, quickly recognizing where he was. He was a copper, after all. "Yeah, thanks."

Alex nodded and closed the door after him with a small wave.

Lestrade walked down the street, pulling out his phone. "Mycroft? Sorry I hung up on you, I kind of panicked, don't ask why. Did you need something?"

* * *

Mycroft hung up after assuring Lestrade that everything had been taken care of and that John and Sherlock had been safely returned to Baker Street. He looked up to see Anthea raising her eyebrow at him. "Don't be so morose, Sir." she said impassively.

When in doubt, it was always a perfectly logical decision to listen to Anthea, so Mycroft shook his head, cracked his knuckles, and went to work.

He would show his brother that such a shallow feeling such as lonliness would not hold back a man like Mycroft Holmes!

... For very long.


	31. Lusting

Lusting

It wasn't like Lestrade was dating Alex or anything. They met, they talked, they drank, ...and fucked. It was all very casual. Alex was an amateur photographer, Lestrade a cop, they both liked beer, Alex had a crush on a friend, Lestrade wasn't interested in anybody yet, Alex liked men, and Lestrade was bi, they actually became decent mates.

Alex sometimes talked about his crush, Joey, and Lestrade told him about Eva. They sympathized without actually knowing what the other felt, but that was okay too. Alex didn't have a criminal record, Lestrade knew that, he checked. He told Alex about it later and apologized, but Alex just shrugged and forgave him. Like it said, Alex didn't have a criminal record.

One thing they had in common was their love of doughnuts. It was nothing spectacular, although they did make a dead-serious pact between men that the first to wake up would get doughnuts from the bakery down the street. It was the first time Lestrade found someone other than himself who could eat something so sweet with a hangover without puking. It was just one of those little things that made him smile.

Another thing that made him smile was the way Alex would sometimes sneak up behind him and wrap his arms around his waist from behind, or when he woke up snuggled securely in the slightly taller man's arms with Alex's face pressed into the back of his neck. It was an odd feeling since Eva hardly did those things. It was... different, in a nice way. ... Speaking of things that made him smile, there that was that freaky thing that Alex would sometimes do with his tongue...

But, their relationship wasn't just about sex and complaining about their love-lives full of fail. Sometimes, Lestrade would drop by and they'd just sit down and watch TV or something. And they'd go to bed and just sleep, just to be able to sleep together.

And there were nights when they didn't sleep at all. Alex was a very good looking man when one took a closer look, he had dark brown hair that wasn't too long, but long enough to twist your fingers in without the thick strands coming loose. He was about five inches taller than Lestrade and was stocky. He was fit, not in a terribly muscled way, just - sort of - lithe and toned. It was weird, he was the kind of person that woman could become friends with without having a rabid attraction for, ...but strip him down a bit and they'd be throwing themselves at him.

Alex had crowed with laughter when Lestrade had told him so. "'Rabid attraction', huh? Sounds dangerous, it's a bloody good thing I like guys, then!"

Lestrade had also had the chance to meet Alex's crush, Joey, as well. He was attractive, blonde, mild, and well mannered, one of the models that Alex frequently photographed, he was also straight and very much married. But, Hell, that was life, wasn't it? It was a running joke between them that if Alex stole Joey, Lestrade had to be a mate and console the wife. It was a horrible joke, but it was funny as long as they were drunk.

And then there was the sex...

One thing Lestrade could not deny... there was alot of it... and it was good. Alex showed him alot of how things worked between guys because it was different with girls... duh. Lestrade had been slightly bothered about his ignorance after he had woken up in a strange man's bed without any concrete memory of what happened the night before and knew little more than the fact that his arse had smarted like a-... Anyway, it really bloody hurt.

Alex had doubled over laughing when Lestrade ruefully told him about that particularly embarrassing incident but was coerced into keeping silence. He didn't poke much fun about it except for the occassional jab to keep Lestrade on his toes. He didn't mind that Lestrade was unexperienced, he argued that it just gave him an excuse to show him how to do things in a way that he liked.

And life was good.

* * *

"So... you have a new boyfriend." Lestrade almost spat out his coffee and stared at Sherlock.

"Sorry, I don't think that's any of your business!" he protested, not even bothering to ask Sherlock how he knew.

"You haven't even known him for long." Sherlock continued.

"He's not my boyfriend." Lestrade declared. "Just to straighten things out with you."

Sherlock looked confused. "But-... But..." He glanced down at Lestrade's knees.

"Sherlock, don't even think about saying it." Lestrade cut him off preemptively.

"You're sure you're not...?" Sherlock seemed confused.

"It's called casual sex." Lestrade told him, groaning. "Not everybody believes in abstinence. ...And, I can't believe we're talking this over a case!" He scowled and pinned a suspect's picture on the murder board slightly more violently than necessary.

"Oh..." Sherlock hummed thoughtfully at the new information.

"Why are you asking, anyway?" Lestrade asked. "Before, you didn't understand why people had an attraction to, in your own words, 'Exchanging bodily fluids, do they not know how potentially unhygenic that is?'"

Sherlock scowled at him, then glanced over his shoulder at John. "It's nothing."

"Ah..." Lestrade trailed off with a grin at Sherlock's glower. "Contemplating changing your opinion on the matter?"

Sherlock pressed his lips together and stalked out.

Lestrade just laughed as he went.

* * *

It was immoral.

Mycroft knew it and frowned as he watched the surveilance on Lestrade. He could see Lestrade with Alex through the photographer's sitting room window. Alex had mischeviously ambushed Lestrade with his camera and was snapping pictures of Lestrade as he entered the flat, causing Lestrade to playfully try to wrestle the camera away from him which ended with them sprawled on the sitting room sofa in a snogging battle for dominance. Lestrade was the less experienced of the two but he wasn't afraid to take the lead occassionally and explore his preferences.

He watched as Lestrade straddled Alex and peeled his lover's shirt from his skin as he kissed him soundly. There was a slight yelp that dissolved into embarrassed chuckles when a hand gripped Lestrade's arse, catching him off-guard. An infuriating smirk flitted across Lestrade's face as he shed his own shirt, baring skin.

Mycroft tore his gaze away from his computer screen and switched it off. He knew what came next and also knew that he couldn't watch or listen without feeling like some voyeuristic stalker. Well, he would have no defense on the stalker accusation, that was in his job description after all, but he was not some voyeur!

It was enough to make Mycroft sick to think of such a thing. Certainly, he had nothing against people thinking that he would do anything to get what he wanted, but he had a reputation, a stoic self-respect, and knew that that was a line that he would not cross.

He growled and gathered his suit coat as he left his office to go home.

No, if Mycroft wanted to see Lestrade in a more intimate setting, or hear his voice on an unprofessional level, it would be for his own pleasure rather than for some stranger's. Besides, he never needed Lestrade in that way before and he wasn't about to start wanting him now.

Mycroft Holmes was above dependancy on others. Lust was shallow and trivial, it would soon pass.

But that did not mean that Lestrade would not haunt his dreams tonight.

* * *

Alex lay awake watching his lover sleep contentedly beside him, moonlight spilling over the older man's already pale skin, casting an etheral glow about him. Sure Lestrade was older, shorter, and scarred at some places, he was a bit self-conscious about those things, but sleeping like this, naked, vulnerable, ... beautiful. He couldn't understand why Lestrade always flushed and shook his head with embarrassment when he complimented him. Alex loved the imperfect perfections of everyday life. That was why he had decided to become a photographer.

Lestrade stirred slightly and snuffled softly before blinking his deep brown eyes open. "What is it, Alex?" he asked, curious as to why his lover was awake. Alex loved those eyes almost as much as he loved Joey's. But, while Joey's were always bright and smiling and so swimmingly blue, Lestrade's were intimate, thoughtful, ...mysterious.

"Greg." Alex sighed contentedly to his lover as he carded his fingers through Lestrade's hair in a way that he knew the copper enjoyed. "Has anybody told you how desireable you are?" he murmured with a smile. He didn't usually dress his words up so poetically if possible, he liked being straight and to the point. But it was worth it to see how Lestrade would react so bashfully.

Lestrade blinked with surprise and let out a startled laugh. "No, I can't say they have." He pressed his lips together and tried not to look too taken-aback at the out-of-the-blue compliment.

"But don't tell Joey I told you that." Alex chuckled.

"He won't hear it from me." Lestrade made a zipping motion over his mouth to convey his promise of silence.

There was a silent moment where they just lay in the pale moonlight. Then, Alex pulled himself away for a few moments and returned with his camera. He held it up. "May I?"

Lestrade contemplated it for a moment. "As long as it doesn't see the light of day." he grumbled, blushing slightly.

"I promise." Alex smiled back. "Our secret."

Lestrade nodded to himself at that. Then he struck a playful pose. "Well then! Draw me like one of your French girls, Jack." he winked.

That made Alex crack up.

* * *

Irene Adler, The Woman, as she was better known as, trailed the tip of her leather riding crop over the red, abused skin of her client, taking a slightly perverse pleasure in knowing that pictures of what was happening was being recorded on her phone.

_Smile for the camera, your Majesty._


	32. Affectionate

Affectionate

Lestrade was having a field day. Seriously, years of putting up with Sherlock was worth this one glorious moment.

"So..." Lestrade tried to hold back a chuckle. "...mind telling me what the Hell went down in here again?" He casually stuck his hands in his pockets and looked around at the three mysterious men in suits who were splayed around the hotel room at various degrees of injury.

John scowled at him from the couch where the unconscious Sherlock had been moved to. "Seriously, Lestrade!" he exclaimed, exasperated. "We've been over it a few times now."

"Sorry, I was just too shocked at the time to take notes." Lestrade shrugged back helplessly.

"And the second and third time, you were too concentrated on keeping your giggles under control that you couldn't write." John rolled his eyes.

"Irene Adler, huh?" Lestrade smirked. "What a woman."

But what had really cracked him up was that when asked for a description of The Woman, John shrugged and said; "Brunette, pale skin, attractive, ...and she wore these really gorgeous diamond earrings." And when asked what clothes she had been wearing, John hadn't answered.

Donovan hadn't quite gotten what the poor man had been insinuating for a while.

It didn't hurt that this was a woman that Mycroft Holmes needed to track down. Seriously, his face? It was hilarious.

He glanced at Sherlock... and snapped a picture on his phone.

Yes, today was a good day.

* * *

Scotland Yard was packing up shop several minutes later when Mycroft's men came to take over the case, Lestrade was walking back to his car when he saw a familiar face crossing the street away from the scene. He paused for a moment, a hand on the open car door before he closed it and jogged after the woman.

"Eva?" The woman spun around, eyes wide with surprise at being called out to on the street.

"Greg?" A beautiful smile broke out across the woman's face. "Oh my God! It's great to see you again! What are you doing here?" she enthused, slightly flustered.

"Ah, got called out, see?" Lestrade nodded his head in the direction of the police cars in front of the hotel. His gaze softened. "How are you, Eva?"

"Great, it's been pretty good, yeah." Eva shrugged with a slight smile. "You?"

"Uh, so-so." Lestrade tilted his hand a bit back and forth to indicate how things were. "Sherlock made a friend, would you believe?"

Eva had only ever met Sherlock once in her life, but she had heard enough about him from Lestrade to feel as if she knew him. "You're kidding! Really? What's he like?"

"His name's John Watson, he's an ex-army medic." Lestrade grinned, glad that things wern't terribly awkward between them. He liked Eva, as a girlfriend, a wife, and, he hoped, as a friend.

"Army, huh? Figures that fate would feel the need to bring out the big guns." Eva laughed brightly.

"Yeah." Lestrade chuckled back, then glanced at his watch. "So, um, you want to go out for lunch? Catch up a bit?"

Eva knew an extended olive branch when she saw one. "Sure." She smiled, looking a little relieved.

"Just hold on a sec, I need to tell my team I'm disappearing for a bit." Lestrade grinned and dashed off to find Donovan.

* * *

They had met up a handful of times over the course of a few months and returned to the close relationship they had shared back before they'd drifted apart. They wern't close romantically or anything, just... friendly? It sort of felt like they were bickering siblings now.

At least... he hoped so. God! It's been so long since they separated, but still too soon to be comfortable.

"Do you-..." Lestrade shook his head, thinking better of what he had been about to ask.

"Do I what?" Eva asked from beneath thick black lashes. And-... God she was beautiful. Of course, that ship had already sailed, but it couldn't hurt to wish, could it?

"Do you ever wish that we hadn't grown apart like we did?" There. Said it.

Eva blinked at him slowly, thoughtfully. "Always." she said.

Maybe that's what made it hurt so much when Sherlock had told him idly that she was still with the P.E. teacher when Christmas came.

* * *

Lunch with Eva was just as intimate and fun as he remembered it being. Eva was the kind of bright character that you could meet on the street, talk to for five minutes, and leave feeling like old friends. She was great like that.

"So, you seeing anybody recently?" Eva asked slowly when there was a lull in their conversation.

Lestrade tensed slightly. "Um, kind of."

Eva blinked blankly, then smiled a little. "I... really have no idea what that means." she admitted.

Lestrade bit his bottom lip lightly, more scraping his teeth over it. "Well... we're not dating. Just-..."

"Shagging occassionally?" Eva piped up impishly.

"That is _so_ not something a woman should feel comfortable saying!" Lestrade grinned at her in amusement.

"No, I suppose not. But I'm awesome like that." Eva winked.

"So what about you?" Lestrade asked her in turn.

"Still with Paul." Eva told him, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. It was a nervous tell.

"The P.E. teacher?" Lestrade asked, just for clarification. Eva nodded slowly. "Well, good for you." Lestrade shrugged a little. The truth hurt like a seizing muscle in his chest, but Lestrade shook it off. "Serious, is it, then?"

Eva did a glum one-shouldered shrug looking absolutely miserable. "Greg, I have something to confess..."

Lestrade sat up a little straighter in his seat. "What's wrong, Eva?" he asked concernedly.

"It's-... I'm..." Eva leaned back into her seat and gestured vaguely toward her belly.

Lestrade swallowed thickly because admitting you are full should never cause that much awkwardness as Eva was radiating. "You're-... pregnant?" Lestrade asked her slowly.

Eva nodded, absolutely refusing to look Lestrade in the eye. "It's-... yeah." _And it's not yours. _Lestrade could almost hear what Eva had just chickened out on telling him outright.

Lestrade sat in stunned silence for a moment or two, then he brushed his hand over the ring on his finger. He never wore it when off work because he was almost always with Alex, but when at work, he did wear it still. He twisted it a few times contemplatively before finally slipping it off his finger resignedly and placing it delicately on the table within Eva's sight.

"I never thought I'd say this." Lestrade sighed to himself heavily as he placed a gentle hand on Eva's shoulder. "But, you and I? We, Eva, are going to get divorced, right now. Because I think you're going to need to get married again as soon as possible."

Eva let out a gentle giggle as she rubbed one eye with the back of her hand. "Oh, thank God. I thought you'd be angrier with me." She sighed, sniffing.

"Nonsense." Lestrade stood and helped Eva up as they left their table. He wrapped an affectionate arm around the relieved woman. "I'm always going to look out for you. You know that, right?" He dropped a kiss onto her hair. "Even if it's not as your husband. So, we good?"

Eva sniffed again and nodded. "We're good."

"Good. How much longer?" Lestrade asked, glancing down at her stomache. It still showed no signs of expanding.

"I just found out about it a month ago." Eva told him, rubbing a hand over her belly in an already motherly way. "I can't wait."

Lestrade left his ring on the table.

Eva had left hers under the napkin on her seat.

* * *

Eva and Paul got married a few months later. Lestrade had been invited and had dragged Alex along. Once he had gotten past thinking of Paul as 'The bastard P.E. teacher', he had grown a slightly reluctant acceptance of the man.

He also got the chance to take the bridegroom aside privately to give him the 'If you hurt her, I'll...' speech.

Actually, he had delivered the speech the night before the wedding day so the man could take the whole night to cry the nightmares off. Everybody in the family knew of Lestrade's infamous speeches, there was never a man who dated or married Lestrade's female family members without being on the recieving end of one of the horrors. His sister Maisie had even joked that that was why the younger girls of the Lestrade family never got divorced. The husbands were all too scared of what Lestrade might do to them if they did!

"I think we should make it a family tradition." Maisie laughed. "For good luck."

Lestrade had just grinned, rolled his eyes, ...and began contemplating the idea seriously.

Also, nobody even blinked at Lestrade's date being male. That was a relief. Eva and Maisie had even gone so far as to joke about it. "Well, that's another thing we have in common." Eva said, "We both like guys."

Maisie took it one step further and wagged her eyebrows at Alex. "He's cute. Hey, Greg, can I trade dates?" That had earned them an indignant sqwawk from Maisie's husband Peter and the amusement of the rest of the family.

Lestrade beamed proudly at Eva as she tiptoed daintily on her toes to plant a chaste kiss on Paul's cheek as Alex took their wedding photos for them.

While he had accepted the fact that he no longer loved her as a wife. It did not stop loving her at all.

His mum glided elegantly up beside him and nudged him gently in the ribs. "So, Gregory, when are you going to get remarried?"

Lestrade just laughed at her and shook his head.

Not anytime soon, he thought.


	33. Irrate

Irrate

_John's gone. -SH_

_Don't panic, Sherlock, I think I've still got those 'missing pet' posters from the last time John disappeared to his girlfriend's house. -MH_

_Why, Mycroft? Every single time I tell you John's gone missing, you talk about him like he's a lost pet. Why? -SH_

_Because you act like a worried owner. -MH_

_Do not. -SH_

_You do. John's at Kendra's, by the way, if you don't want to waste time posting the posters on supermarket windows. -MH_

_Shut up. Who's Kendra? -SH_

_John's girlfriend. -MH_

_Hold on a second, Sarah's the doctor, he broke up with the one with the freckles, it's not the one with the nose, nor the boring teacher. Who is it? -SH_

_Girl he met out at the supermarket when shopping for __**your**__ milk. You do know that I'd appreciate you calling them by names not just occupations or physical features. -MH_

_John doesn't have a girlfriend! -SH_

_No, John simply didn't tell you about her, smartest thing he's ever done. Don't worry, Sherlock, it's not going to last, in fact, I believe Dr. Watson will break it off with her in a few days. -MH_

_How do you know that? -SH_

_Same way I know why you didn't realize he had a girlfriend. -MH_

_Meaning? -SH_

_You're both blind fools. -MH_

_... Figures you wouldn't know what I mean. -MH_

_Shut up. -SH_

* * *

_I'm trying to get Sherlock to stop smoking. -John_

_Ohh, bad idea, that. -Lestrade_

_I would've liked to have known that before I set out to start the prohibition. -John_

_Please tell me you've got a case for him. My patience is on its last legs and wearing out fast. -John_

_Sorry, Sherlock's just finished solving the last interesting one. -Lestrade_

_Do I even want to know what Sherlock was doing with the harpoon? -John_

_No. -Lestrade_

_Seriously, Lestrade, I'm begging here. -John_

_Sorry, mate, but I think I'm just going to sit this one out. -Lestrade_

_I hate you. -John_

_Haha. No you don't. Tell you what, lets grab a drink or two the next time we're both free, yeah? -Lestrade_

_Oh, God yes. -John_

Lestrade chuckled to himself as he ducked under the crime scene tape. John really should've known better.

* * *

_I wish to speak with you at once. -MH_

_What about? -Lestrade_

_Sherlock. -MH_

_Oh, no. John told me he was trying to get him to stop smoking. What did he do? -Lestrade_

_Broke into a Ministry of Defense research base. -MH_

_Which? -Lestrade_

_Baskerville. My car will be right around in about five minutes. -MH_

Lestrade sighed and walked out of his office. "Donovan, I'll be gone a bit, okay?" he called as he passed his sergeant's desk.

"Where are you going?" Donovan asked after him.

"I've no idea!" Lestrade replied over his shoulder. And that was the truth. Although... he had been half-inclined to reply 'To get abducted by your aliens!' He still hadn't gotten over that particular incident with Mycroft.

Mycroft's car was pulled up outside Scotland Yard by the time Lestrade walked out. He got into the passenger seat and found himself alone. "Where's Mycroft?" he asked Jason, Mycroft's loyal driver.

"Mister Holmes is at the Diogenes Club at the moment, Inspector." Jason replied politely.

"Sorry, the Dio-what?"

"The Diogenes Club which Mister Holmes is a member of." Jason told him.

"Okay..." Mycroft had mentioned the club a few times to Lestrade, but the copper had never been there yet.

The car pulled up outside a sophisticated-looking building. Lestrade glanced at Jason and the driver nodded at him encouragingly. "A word of warning, Mister Lestrade, speaking and noise are banned in the club. If you do not have paper and a pen, I will be more than happy to lend them to you."

Lestrade blinked at the elderly man. "I'm good, thanks." he said slowly. "No talking at all, huh? Peculiar rules." he remarked dryly as he stepped out of the car.

He walked into the building and was greeted with a silent nod from a man at the door who motioned for him to follow him. Obviously, he was expected. Lestrade meekly followed the man who's muffled-shoes intregued him. He caught sight of their destination, a seating area by the windows, where Mycroft Holmes sat reading.

"My-..." Lestrade smothered the noise in his throat the moment he felt a resentful gaze settle on the back of his neck and opted for a tentative wave.

Mycroft smiled back silently and tilted his head in a gesture that told Lestrade that he wanted him to follow. So he did. Mycroft led him out of the room and down a corridor to an empty room. "This is the Stranger's Room. We may speak freely here." he told the bemused copper.

"Okay..." Lestrade nodded. "So, about Sherlock's adventure breaking into a research base? Is it something serious?"

"He is investigating the 'Hound of Hell' legends in Dartmoor." Mycroft told him bluntly.

Lestrade blinked blankly. "And... that ties into him breaking into a research base, how?"

"Because it's not entirely legend." Mycroft replied, deadpanned.

Lestrade stared, then nodded. "Alright, mind clarifying that for me? Becuse I sincerely hope you're not implying that mutant hounds are being created by Dr. Frankenstein somewhere in the middle of nowhere to ignite the people's belief in werewolves." Lestrade snarked as he sat himself down in one of the stuffed armchairs without being invited.

Mycroft sighed and also sat. "A little over twenty years ago, there was a secret military project. It was dangerous and it was shut down. You must not ask me to divulge in the details." Lestrade nodded soberly. "Sherlock may be investigating that line of progress... that particular line of progress may still be dangerous."

Lestrade suddenly stood up, startling Mycroft slightly. "No."

"Pardon?" Mycroft asked, leaning back in his seat to keep eye contact with Lestrade more comfortably.

"You're going to ask me to go out there in the middle of nowhere to keep an eye on Sherlock. My answer is 'no'." Lestrade crossed his arms. "My desk is overrun by paperwork that still needs to be done because Sherlock rode the Tube, covered in blood and carrying a harpoon. I'm not looking forward to adding 'he broke into a research base, and them some' to that pile. Because, face it, he's not going to stop there."

Mycroft sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Gregory..."

"Nope." Lestrade turned and walked straight back out of the Stranger's Room. His phone buzzed silently in his pocket and he pulled it out as he strode briskly down the corridor back the way they had come from.

_Please? -MH_

He threw an annoyed scowl over his shoulder at Mycroft, who was following him a few steps back. _No. -Lestrade_

They re-entered the sitting room. _The paperwork on your desk will be gone by the time you get back. And I will take responsibility for everything Sherlock does on this case. -MH_

Lestrade stopped short in the middle of the room and spun around to face Mycroft, surrounded by at least seven distinguished men who were savoring the serene silence. "Mycroft Holmes, you're a bleeding arse. Don't make me say anything worse." Then, Lestrade turned back around and walked out of the building. He took slight pleasure in knowing that everybody in the room heard that.

Some glared at the back of his head for breaking the silence, some grinned in amusement, Mycroft just scowled irrately.

_Fine. -Lestrade_

* * *

He really did mean it when he said that he didn't do everything Mycroft told him to do... Mycroft was just good at bribing him into doing things.

Fucking Mycroft.

As much as Mycroft irritated Lestrade, Sherlock not knowing his name ticked him off even more. He could almost hear the silent 'His first name is 'Inspector', John.' look Sherlock was sending his flatmate.

But, if he was honest with himself, the worst of it was when Sherlock had mockingly referred to him as his 'handler'.

It really damn annoyed him, didn't it?

Yes, it did.

The upside? Mycroft did hold up his end of the bargain and all evidence of Sherlock being on the Tube technically on Scotland Yard's behalf was wiped from the records.

And he had made it seem so easy. Shit! Bloody government.

He needed that drink with John.

And he needed to forget the way Sherlock's eyes had lingered on his ring finger, obviously noting its disappearance. He'd probably ask about it at another inappropriate time.

Lestrade let out an exasperated sigh and rubbed his face ruefully.

Maybe he should've refused Mycroft's bribe.


	34. Dishonest

Dishonest

"John..." Lestrade waved his hand in front of his drinking partner's face. "John, are you alright?"

John blinked himself back to awareness. "Sorry, what?"

"Zoned out there, mate." Lestrade told him with a snicker, taking another swig of his pint. "Suddenly grew a thousand-yard stare. What happened?"

John sighed morosely and shook his head. "It's nothing."

"Sorry, I don't make it a habit to believe people who sigh miserably and say 'It's nothing.' because obviously something's not right about that." Lestrade told him casually.

"It's..." John furrowed his brow, pressing his lips together in deep contemplation. Lestrade didn't wave his hand in front of John's face again in favor of waiting for him to figure out his facts. "Greg, you've known Sherlock for a few years, right?"

Lestrade shrugged. "Boardering on several now."

"Would you-..." John paused hesitantly. "Would you consider him a friend?"

Lestrade blinked, slightly startled at the question. "Uh, sure, why not?"

"I'm not doubting your loyalty to him or anything, because you've obviously surpassed that stage... plus some. I mean, you put up with him, indulge him, look out for him but-..." John trailed off.

"But Sherlock's the worst mate a man can have." Lestrade nodded understandingly.

"Yeah." John nodded sheepishly. "He said he doesn't have friends."

Lestrade let out a slight chuckle and mimed Pinocchio's nose lengthening accompanied with a facetious sound effect. "Self-proclaimed sociopath, Doctor, go figure."

"It's just..." John sighed heavily into his beer. "...I'm not really sure I should believe him."

Lestrade shifted in his seat to rest his elbow on the table. "What? When he said that 'he didn't have friends, just the one'?" He smiled sympathetically when John jumped and looked at him as if wondering if he was psychic.

"Uh-..." The ex-army medic floundered but decided that he didn't want to know how his friend knew what he knew. Mycroft probably had a hand in it, because - well - you never know...

"Sherlock can lie to himself, John." Lestrade sighed at their hopeless friend. "And he can lie to us, too, but he has no reason to lie about something like that. He knows you'd settle for less, he could've let the matter drop, but he didn't. I think that proves alot more than just his word."

John grimaced. "I feel kind of bad talking to you about this, he takes up plenty of your time already."

"Yep. I drink to rid myself of his memory for a few hours, thanks for the reminder." Lestrade mock-growled back. Then turned to stare into his own drink. "And well, Sherlock and I-... we're not, technically, friends. Despite what I said before."

"Uh, huh." John grunted around the rim of his glass. "You're more like... collegues?" Sounded a bit unsure there...

"Yeah." Lestrade grumbled.

"Asset and handler?" John suggested.

"Okay, maybe..." The copper conceded reluctantly. "Just a little bit."

"Bully and a good kid at school?" John's eyes twinkled merrily.

"Oi, that's too much, mate!" Lestrade swatted his shoulder with a laugh.

"And what about Mycroft, then? You're sort of friends but he has you dragged out into bum-fuck nowhere without really telling you why? How's that, then?" John took a great swig of his drink at the very mention of Mycroft.

Lestrade inclined his head thoughtfully. "I don't know. We're-... reluctant friends, I guess. I mean, we're working for a common goal, keeping London relatively safe and looking after Sherlock. I don't really know myself, but sometime between getting kidnapped by him and joining forces to try and keep Sherlock out of trouble, we've - I don't know - grown to tolerate each other."

"Oh?" John raised his eyebrow. "You were joking around with him, referring to his work as 'Hogwarts' and 'Operation 1984'."

"He lets me get away with stuff like that because I handle Sherlock for him." Lestrade shrugged.

"If I had said it, he probably would've killed me." John groaned.

"Yeah, he probably would've." Lestrade laughed.

"So-..." John raised his eyebrows expectantly, waiting for an explanation.

Whatever Lestrade was about to say was cut of by a man stauntering up to their table and touching Lestrade's shoulder as he gazed intently at his face. "My God, Alec? Is that really you?"

Lestrade looked up irrately at the man and went slightly slack-jawed but regained his composure so quickly that John wondered if it had been a figment of his imagination. The stranger did not notice. "Sorry, mate. Wrong man. I'm Greg." Lestrade smiled bewilderedly.

The man blinked through his slightly drink-hazy vision. "Oh, you're right. Sorry, man. Thought you were somebody else." And he ambled off.

Funny. John could've sworn the man had entered the pub a short while after him and Lestrade. They were still on their first drinks so unless the man really couldn't hold his drink...

Lestrade stood up suddenly, breaking off John's line of thought. "Sorry, John. I'm not feeling too well." he lied - well - half-lied. "Can we, maybe, go for a binge another time?"

John looked at him concernedly. "Is something the matter?"

Lestrade's responding look was unreadable. "No. It's fine. Just a bit tired from the last case." He took one last large gulp of his beer and walked out.

John sat frozen. Lestrade was always insanely tired after an arduous case with Sherlock, everybody took that fact for granted. He never used that excuse because everybody knew how well he functioned even without sleep.

John had never heard Lestrade admit he was exhausted. Not even on that one case where the man had practically passed out at his desk from exhaustion during what he had promised to be a five minute break.

He never said he was tired. _Never._

John took another careful sip of his beer and looked around for the man who had approached them.

But he wasn't to be found.

* * *

Sherlock's phone rang. He glared at it. It was all the way over on the other side of the room from his couch! The ringing stopped and Sherlock sighed in relief, closing his eyes serenely at the silen-... Aaand there was the ringing again. Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he scowled at his phone as if he was attempting to bring it closer with the sheer power of his mind.

"Text, damn you." he grumpily advised his tormenter as he screwed his eyes shut again.

Five mintues later, he did get a text.

An hour after that, Mrs. Hudson came by with tea. "Sherlock-..."

Sherlock interrupted her swiftly without opening his eyes. "Tea, yes please. Milk, no sugar. But before that, my phone." He held out his hand expectantly.

He heard Mrs. Hudson sigh admonishingly and his phone dropped into his hand. "Just this once, darling-..."

"... You're my landlady, not my housekeeper." Sherlock finished before she could. "But you do it anyway, so-..." He gave a one-shouldered shrug and finally opened his eyes to read his text.

It was from John. As were the two phonecalls. He snorted. John should've realized, by now, that he strictly did not take phonecalls when they were not necessary.

_A man walked up to me and Greg in the pub and called him 'Alec'. Immediately afterwards, Lestrade excused himself saying that he was tired. He looked a bit spooked. Am I paranoid, or should I be worried? -John_

Sherlock sat up so quickly that Mrs. Hudson jumped and almost spilled the tea she was pouring for Sherlock. "Oh, good Lord! Sherlock!" she gasped, startled, pressing a hand to her chest.

Sherlock took a deep breath. And then another.

_Alec... _The name was familiar. Something he had seen briefly, but thought it important enough to remember...

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "Alec..." he murmured aloud.

Then he texted John back. _Are you sure he was called 'Alec'? -SH_

John responded five minutes later._ Yes, I'm sure. What is it? Does it mean something? -John_

Sherlock bit his lip slightly. _Perhaps. -SH_ It was the closest he was getting to saying 'I don't know'.

_Is he in danger? -John_

Yes? No? Memories of DCI Meadows lying dead on a red-stained carpet versus the chances of this simply being a case of paranoia.

_That's no business of ours. -SH_

_Since when have you respected people's privacy? -John_

_This is a slightly different case. Trust me. -SH_

Then Sherlock texted Mycroft.

_A man approached Lestrade in the pub with John and called him 'Alec'. Lestrade left immediately after. -SH_

_Alec? -MH_

_So that name strikes a memory in you too? -SH_

Mycroft sat back in his seat at his desk and closed his eyes. _Alec... _Something he and Sherlock had seen but did not remember with clarity... _A dark loading dock, Unit 34, Lestrade's case spread out on the wall like a murder board, finding his file, and then... _

He opened his eyes. He remembered. _Gregory Lestrade. Ref. [a29] _

He was holding the thick file and flipping through it at the desk, Sherlock was peering over his shoulder at it. Mycroft closed his eyes again to relive the moment.

* * *

_Mycroft skimmed the next few pages until he found something that caught his eye. __**New Scotland Yard asset. Informant. Deep non-official cover.**_

_"My God..." Sherlock managed when the truth dawned on him._

_"Found what you're looking for, gentlemen?" Both Holmeses spun around when they heard Lestrade speak from the door behind them. He his arms were crossed and he leaned against the doorway, looking less than amused._

_"Lestrade..." Sherlock began._

_"I don't want to hear it, Sherlock." Lestrade cut him off icily. "I remember specifically telling you not to get involved."_

_Mycroft frowned, he had not heard about that._

_And suddenly dark brown, near black, eyes were looking at him with a mixture of hurt and disappointment. "Get out. Both of you."_

* * *

The name Alec had been there in the file Mycroft had been holding. He and Sherlock had given too much of their attention to Lestrade and the matter at hand that they did not read the whole paragraph. But Mycroft remembered enough.

_NOC: Alec..._

That was all he had read. Lestrade was known only as Alec when he had infiltrated Welles's organization and someone had recognized him...

He grabbed his phone. "Anthea, find Lestrade."

And he hung up.

* * *

Lestrade stalked darkly up to his flat, he was in no mood for - well - anything, right now. God, he hoped the Holmeses wouldn't have bad enough luck to call him right now, he'd have an ugly thing or two to tell them...

He kept his gaze down as he reached his hand into his pocket for his keys. When he looked up, he found a crisp white card stuck to his door.

He frowned and snatched it up. On it was an elegant handwritten message scripted out in royal blue ink.

_One cannot and must not try to erase the past merely because it does not fit the present._

Lestrade's stomache dropped into the heels of his feet. Then he saw the scratch marks on his door, small scrapes around the lock. He tentatively reached out his hand and tried the door.

It was unlocked.

The door swung open with with a silent whisper and Lestrade groaned at the sight that welcomed him home. "Oh, Christ...!"


	35. In Shock

In Shock

Police officers milled about in his flat, poking at anything and everything he owned. Lestrade gritted his teeth with slight indignation, but let them do so because that was their job. Still... he didn't like people prodding around in his personal possessions.

"Sir." Donovan said softly as she approached him. "I'm sorry, but I've got to ask-..."

"No." Lestrade ground out. "No, nothing was stolen, and I might have an idea of who did this but I've got no proof. And yes, you can take some stuff down to the Yard for evidence."

Donovan pressed her lips together sympathetically. "I'm sorry, Sir."

Lestrade shook his head. "That's alright. It could've been worse."

His flat was a mess. No piece of furniture was upright, no book or file left un-ripped, no CD unbroken, his clothes, every single article of it was thrown haphazardly out, shredded with a knife, and stained red with wine in an attempt to seem like blood.

It was clearly an intimidation tactic... and it bloody well worked. Lestrade crossed his arms, planted his feet firmly into the ground and tightened his jaw, head held high, refusing to appear affected. Or more, refusing to appear so weak and out-of-control in front of his men.

If Pupshaw and York wanted to see him quiver in fright, he'd be sure to disappoint them.

A black car pulled up on the street outside his flat and Lestrade walked out to meet it. Mycroft dismounted from the back passenger seat and met him halfway, looking concerned. "Are you alright, Gregory?" he asked softly.

"Yeah." Lestrade nodded to him. "I took a look at your surveilance. Whoever did this planned it so that I wouldn't be in the area when they trashed the place." He shrugged. "It might've been worse if I'd walked in on them while they were here."

Mycroft's jaw tightened. "Forgive me for asking, Gregory, but is this-...?" he trailed off.

Lestrade sighed. "Yeah, it's probably Pupshaw and York." He turned to watch the officers march in-and-out of his flat, carrying boxes of his personal belongings and packing them away in vans to be brought to Scotland Yard. "Look at that, looks like I'm finally moving into the Yard." he joked wryly. "I can die happy now."

"You should get a proper bed to sleep in while over there as well, instead of using that tiny open space you sleep in under your desk." Mycroft joked back.

"What can I say?" Lestrade shrugged. "It's cozy under there."

They shared a humorless laugh. "I am sorry, Gregory, that my men did not get there in time to intercept them." Mycroft told him darkly. "The men responsible worked quickly with an efficiancy that I would've liked to have in my own subordinates."

"Pity they put their uses for breaking into my flat and destroying it." Lestrade grumbled. "I liked this flat."

"And I promise you, it will be returned to its former glory before you even know it." Mycroft vowed quietly.

Lestrade reached into his coat pocket and handed Mycroft a plain white card. "I found that on my door." The detective said in explanation.

Mycroft looked at it. _One cannot and must not try to erase the past merely because it does not fit the present._ He frowned at it. "Ah."

Lestrade nodded. "Uh, huh. Looks like Pupshaw and York want me to remember the case."

"Is there something in particular that was meant by this?" Mycroft asked, gesturing to the card in his hand.

Lestrade sucked in a shaky breath, held it a moment, and released it. "Maybe." Mycroft looked at him. "Look, Mycroft, alot of cops would be glad to kill me for some of the shit I did while undercover. That's why hardly any of the force knows about my... involvement."

"I see." Mycroft handed the card back to Lestrade. "Sherlock and John are worried." he told Lestrade.

The copper looked up. "Did news travel that fast?"

Mycroft shook his head. "John was worried about what had happened in the pub." Lestrade winced visibly. "He texted Sherlock about it, who in turn texted me. A minute later, Anthea informed me that your flat had been broken into."

"Sorry." Lestrade sighed.

"For what?" Mycroft frowned at him. He knew better than to call Lestrade a 'victim' God knows how the man would resent him for it. "You did nothing wrong."

"John's going to be a bit pissed at me." Lestrade grimaced. "I told him nothing was wrong when I left. He's not an idiot, he'd know I was lying."

"Yes, I suppose. Gregory, that man who approached you in the pub...?"

"His name is Nathan Grant. He was a small time dealer, lower on the chain of command. He was close with Pupshaw in a subordinate way." Lestrade told him. "He got of out jail a few years ago."

Mycroft nodded to himself. "You know, you don't have to call Sherlock in on this case if you do not want to." he told Lestrade.

"I know." Lestrade sighed back at him. "But I know better than to think that I can take them down myself. I'm not that naive." He glanced back at his flat where his men were in the process of bringing out a hamper full of soiled and ripped clothes dyed in red. Lestrade shuddered slightly.

"Come, there is nothing we can do here." Mycroft told him, guiding him gently into his car with a soothing hand on his elbow.

"Where are we going?" Lestrade asked him.

"I don't think it would be wise to visit Sandy and Jonah's diner, who knows if we are being watched even now." Mycroft told him. "I would advise you be careful about that."

Lestrade nodded. "I know."

"There is a wonderfuly quaint little cafe a few blocks down from here." Mycroft suggested.

"Sounds great."

* * *

John walked into the cafe only about twenty minutes after Mycroft and Lestrade got there. He glanced around at the interior of the cafe and his eyes fell on them. He quickly walked over. "I heard about what happened, Greg. I came as quickly as I could." He placed a comforting hand on Lestrade's shoulder, already in full doctor-mode. "Are you okay?" Apparently, he'd been building it up during the ride before he arrived.

Lestrade shrugged a little. "Yeah, all things considered."

"Thank you for coming, Dr. Watson." Mycroft nodded at him politely but John could see faint hints of sincere gratitude in his eyes.

"Sorry, I hate to ask, but one of you have a smoke?" Lestrade asked with a slight frown. Mycroft reached into his jacket pocket and handed a pack of cigarettes over the table to him. Lestrade took it with a nod of thanks. "I'm just going to step out for a bit." he told his two friends before walking out. Mycroft and John could keep an eye on him through the glass door of the cafe as he smoked.

"Is he alright?" John asked Mycroft.

Mycroft shook his head. "No."

"Should I be worried?" John persisted. "I asked Sherlock about it but he became all tight-lipped about it."

"It is a most... personal matter for Gregory." Mycroft told him with a dark frown. "And I'm afraid the last time Sherlock tried to pry, he only made matters worse."

"Whoever's out there, they broke into his flat, Mycroft! A copper's flat, I'm not stupid enough to believe it was a random act of vandalism!" John exclaimed, worried. "What's going on?"

Mycroft glanced over John's shoulder to where Lestrade was still smoking. "I don't think I have any right to tell you about that. And what Sherlock and I know is mostly speculation anyway." John raised his eyebrows incredulously. "We learned not to pry at Lestrade's past affairs the hard way." Mycroft sighed. "If he does not want us to get involved, I will make an endeavor not to do so."

John turned to follow Mycroft's gaze. Lestrade was now on the phone with someone, Mycroft would later be informed that Lestrade had requested Alex to visit friends far out of the potential danger zone for a while. Just to be on the safe side. Alex went to Prague, Mycroft's men kept eyes on him during transit.

At length, Lestrade hung up, ground out his cigarette, and reentered the cafe. "What did I miss, then?" The copper asked them.

John just shrugged. "Nothing much." Mycroft replied coolly.

"Okay..." Lestrade sat himself down at the table with them.

"You have somewhere to stay, Greg?" John asked him politely.

"Uh, no. But I can stick around the Yard. I'm one of the few that doesn't get kicked out for squatting." He grinned ruefully.

"You know, you can always drop by at Baker Street if you need a place to stay." John offered.

Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "Thanks for the offer, John, I appreciate it. But I think I'd rather risk the Yard."

Mycroft laughed. "Quite right."

"I can always find a hotel room or something anyway." Lestrade continued. "It's much simpler."

"Too unguarded." Mycroft cut in. "The security systems are appalling. I have a safehouse in the suburbs if you are so inclined."

"Nah, too far." Lestrade argued.

"To far from what?" Mycroft asked him. "I don't think Scotland Yard would take well to the idea of you investigating your own break-in."

Lestrade grimaced. "True..."

"And I'm sure they'll try to make you take some time off to get over your shock." Mycroft pointed out.

"I'm not in shock."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "Pupshaw and York have broken into your home, the one place you have the right to feel safe, and destroyed it. Yes you are."

"Am not. Look, my hands arn't even shaking." Lestrade held out his hands for examination.

"It is true that your hands are not shaking." Mycroft sniffed. "But they don't usually shake when you are in shock."

Lestrade sighed in exasperation. "Mycroft..."

"Gregory, you are being stubborn." Mycroft cut him off.

"Ladies, ladies." John interrupted, stifling his laughter at their banter. "Let's just find somewhere for Greg to stay for tonight, for starters, alright?"

Lestrade and Mycroft scowled at each other.

"Very well."

"Fine."

* * *

It was soon decided, after Mycroft and John overruled Lestrade's protests, that the copper should stay at Mycroft's safehouse and Mycroft escorted him there just as soon as he dropped John off at Baker Street. Sherlock was not home, Mycroft knew, he was at Lestrade's flat looking for clues. He felt that he should not tell Lestrade that just yet.

Anthea had taken the initiative to pick up some new clothes for Lestrade before they got to the safehouse and they found supplies waiting for him. Lestrade had been a mix of horror and bemusement. "Your secretary knows my exact measurements and the precise articles of clothing I wear to bed." he deadpanned, picking up the dark blue drawstring sweatpants and loose T-shirt Anthea had picked up for him.

Mycroft just shrugged. "Some things are simply not meant to be known, Gregory." Lestrade had laughed at that before seeing Mycroft to the door. "My men will be keeping eyes on you, call immediately if you sense something is amiss."

Lestrade nodded back, rolling his eyes. "Yes, Mum."

Mycroft just frowned at him reprimandingly and walked away in silence.

Lestrade closed and locked the door after him before pressing his forehead on the cool wood with a heavy sigh, tension bled out of his shoulders like a deflating balloon. He rubbed his face ruefully and padded quietly into the bathroom for a shower.

God he was tired.

He turned the shower faucet on as he stripped and stood under the scalding water. Then the full force of what had happened hit him. He let out a haggard breath and pressed his hands against the tiled wall, leaning into it heavily as he squeezed his eyes shut.

His home, invaded by the monsters in his nightmares, torn apart. His safe haven from Sherlock, from Scotland Yard, gone in a matter of minutes. And the things that marked his whole life, his personal belongings, every inch examined by his collegues, people who he'd have to work with again. His treasures, his hobbies, God, his divorce papers... It'd be gossip fodder for months.

Everything.

He clenched his fists and slid down to sit in the bathtub feeling dizzy and overwhelmed. He did not cry, just sort of, dry sobbed. He opened both palms and looked at them catching droplets of water, letting out a strangled laugh.

Son of a Bitch. Mycroft was right. They really didn't shake.


	36. Interested

Interested

"Alright." John huffs in his most serious no-nonsense tone. "What's going on with Lestrade? Seriously, Sherlock, it's driving me mad!"

It had been two days since the break-in at Lestrade's flat, two days since Sherlock refused to stop his manic investigations, and two whole days without communication with Lestrade. John was becoming worried.

"Lestrade's still at Mycroft's safe house." Sherlock told John, being deliberately obtuse. "And I am currently investigating the break-in."

John stared at him, eyebrow raised. "Sherlock."

"Yes, John?"

"You haven't once talked about the case." John pointed out. "And I'm not dumb enough to believe it's because you respect Lestrade's privacy."

Sherlock looked at John. "He made me promise not to involve you."

"Lestrade? When did you get in contact with him?" John asked, slightly confused. Sherlock was silent. "Okay, so _you _don't want me involved." he deduced.

"This isn't like the other cases." Sherlock sighed.

"Yes, Lestrade's involved, you're on edge, it all makes me worried." Sherlock blinked, John crossed his arms. "There's more to this case than just a break-in." A statement, not a question.

Sherlock nodded.

"And you can't tell me about it?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"Is Lestrade in danger?" John asked slowly, his eyes warning Sherlock not to lie.

"Yes." Sherlock replied stiffly.

John was silent for a long time, then he sat down in his designated armchair with a sigh. "A bit unnerving, knowing I know close to nothing about Greg."

Sherlock quirked his eyebrows at his flatmate. "You know his name."

John sighed. "And that he's a cop, once divorced, and likes football." He shrugged. "I know little else."

Sherlock nodded. "He doesn't talk about it."

"Mycroft said that not even he knew everything about it." John hummed.

Sherlock's eyebrows raised. "Oh?"

"Look, Sherlock." John sighed in exasperation at his friend. "Lestrade knows alot about us, watches our backs, lets you..." John flailed his arms. "...Do your business, no questions asked. He's always there when we need him to be, and it doesn't sit right with me when we don't reciprocate the effort."

Sherlock looked at John for a long moment, then he let out a heavy sigh. "Lestrade told me to stay out of it. It was a long time ago." he told him. "Naturally, I didn't. And one of Lestrade's closest collegues died because of it." John's mouth dropped open. "I think the last thing Lestrade wants is for me to pursue his case."

John closed his mouth and swallowed. "What happened?"

Sherlock shook his head. "His superior was shot. I can't tell you anything more."

* * *

"Lestrade?" Mycroft raised his eyebrows.

"Yes, do you know anything about it?" John nodded slowly.

"Dr. Watson, I'm afraid that is not my story to tell." The government agent shook his head grimly. "In fact, I resolved that it was not my story to _know_ until Gregory decided it was in our best interests."

"Arn't you in the least worried?" John asked impatiently. "Sherlock's on edge, he's saying that Lestrade is in danger! Don't you care, at all?"

"I do, in fact!" Mycroft retorted, then pressed his lips shut, keeping his temper in check. "I do." he said, quieter, a dark look in his eyes as he recalled Lestrade's obsession with the case.

John was silent, startled at the elder Holmes's strange loss of self-control, however brief.

"Lestrade is no fool, despite what Sherlock says." Mycroft continued calmly. "If he needs help, he knows to ask for it."

"Does he?" John asked almost incredulously. "I mean, no offense, Mycroft, but I've known you Holmeses for a while now and I don't know if_ I _would."

Mycroft smiled grimly, almost sharkishly. "Dr. Watson... how long do you think Gregory has known me and Sherlock for?" he asked coolly.

John blinked, thought about it... "I don't know."

Mycroft inclined his head condescendingly. "No, Dr. Watson, ...you don't."

And that alone spoke volumes.

* * *

_John's been asking questions. -SH_

_What have you told him? -Lestrade_

_That people have died and that it was none of his business. -SH_

_I don't think John's going to drop the matter just because of that. -Lestrade_

_No, he didn't. He talked to Mycroft. -SH_

_Oh God. -Lestrade_

_He's just worried. -SH_

_I know. That just makes it worse. -Lestrade_

* * *

_Lestrade? You there? -John_

Lestrade glanced at his phone and pressed his lips together. As much as he knew he should respond, he really didn't want to. He knew John would be worried and would ask alot of questions that he wasn't quite prepared to answer. He ignored the text and put his phone down.

He had been lying low. Mycroft arranged everything so that he didn't even need to leave the house. He was on leave from the Yard, Anthea took care of all the shopping, and he continued contact with whoever he usually talked with by phone.

It was only day before yesterday that his flat had been broken into and he was growing bored.

He slowly brewed himself a mug of coffee and sipped it as he walked through the house. It was a lovely two-storey house with three bedrooms, a study, and a library. Seriously, who thought to have a library in a safehouse that wouldn't usually be used?

Lestrade moved to the library window and peered out. The house had a small garden in the front and a wrap-around porch, Lestrade couldn't be sure, but he vaguely remembered that the roof was red-tiled. It was a nice house in a quiet suburban neighbourhood.

He set his coffee mug onto a coffee table in the library and moved to one of the shelves. He was pretty certain that not all of the books were even in English. He picked out a Harry Potter book at random and sat down to read it.

He had only been reading it for about five minutes before his mind wandered to other things. Other things like Pupshaw and York.

He closed his eyes. He remembered Pupshaw being blonde, blue-eyed, and taller than he was with years of fighting under his belt. He had no professional training, he learned from experience. He was a strong and silent type, built like a thick tree, a man of few words, who left the talking to York...

York. Maurice York. He was different story altogether! While blonde-haired and blue-eyed like Pupshaw, he was thin and willowy, he had a fragile air about him that gave you the impression that he could be carried off at any moment by a light gust of wind. His voice was soft and gentle, his words glib on his tongue, he could talk circles around anybody he met as long as he conquered his extreme shyness.

Where Pupshaw was strong, York was skillful, Pupshaw's face was hard and chiseled, York's was pale and delicate. Pupshaw's hair was cropped short and York's was of a fair length and combed back. A prince and his knight. Lestrade chuckled humourlessly at the image. York was Welles's young nephew and Pupshaw was his bodyguard so it wasn't that far off-target.

A knock on the front door startled Lestrade out of his thoughts. He stood up and walked to the door, glancing at the grandfather clock as he passed. It was time for Anthea's usual visit. He peeked out of the eyehole, just to be sure, before he unlocked the door and opened it.

"Good evening." Anthea smiled at him, her arms full of shopping bags.

"Evening." Lestrade smiled back politely, but he had the feeling that something was off about her today... It wasn't like he didn't like Anthea, he liked her well enough. There was just that little detail about the way she looked at him sometimes, like she knew there was a big problem and Lestrade was the key to solving it. It creeped him out... just a little bit.

She held up a plastic shopping bag. "I've got food." she said, though no explanation was needed.

"Thanks, I appreciate it." He stepped aside and let her pass into the kitchen. "Anything I can do to help?" he asked her as she dropped her supplies on the kitchen counter and began putting the food away.

She looked at him with a slight smile. "Oh, that's alright. I think you'd do more damage than help."

Lestrade laughed at that. "Anyway, anything from Sherlock?" Anthea looked at him, expression carefully blank. "Nobody's told me anything, but I'm not an idiot." Lestrade told her wryly. "Sherlock's got his hands all over this one, doesn't he? I'd be more suprised if he didn't."

Anthea pulled out her phone when she recieved a text. Oh, so that's what was off about the situation. "Nothing much has turned up from your flat." Anthea told him. "The only evidence we've got is the security footage from the scene."

_The scene_... Lestrade resisted the urge to bristle at the wording and nodded. "What about the bugs?"

"They didn't speak, apparently." Anthea informed him crisply.

"So they... planned everything they'd do ahead of time?" Lestrade frowned thoughtfully to himself. "Odd, isn't it?"

Anthea rolled her eyes at him. "Inspector, may I remind you that you're on leave?"

Lestrade's shoulders sagged. "I've been here doing nothing for two full days. I'm going stir-crazy."

"Maybe you could take a walk or something? I can have it arranged." Anthea returned her attention to typing out something on her phone.

"Uh, well..." Lestrade scratched the back of his neck sheepishly. "There was somewhere I'd hoped to go..."

Anthea raised her eyebrow at him.


	37. Raining

Raining

It was beginning to shower lightly as Lestrade and Anthea pulled up to the cemetary. Lestrade found it difficult to stay away from the place whenever he felt the tugs of obsession drawing him into The Welles case. He asked Anthea to remain outside while he entered, Anthea had frowned at that.

"It's too risky." she told him firmly.

Lestrade rolled his eyes at her. "There are rarely any visitors who frequent this place. Look, I'll talk to the caretaker and ask if anyone is there and if there isn't, you can let me go in and stop anybody from entering after me."

Anthea contemplated that thought for a while, her mysterious mind going over the potential variables of the plan. "Okay." she relented finally.

Lestrade went in, Anthea did not. He did not come out for a long time.

* * *

Three hours later, Mycroft arrived on the scene in a second car. He dismounted and walked over to the car that housed his assistant. Anthea opened the door and stepped out even before he reached her. "He hasn't come out yet, Sir." Anthea said, keeping her eyes carefully on her Blackberry so as not to see the concerned frown cross Mycroft's features. The man had a reputation to keep after all.

"How long?"

"Three hours." was the curt reply.

"Anything?" Mycroft asked.

"Nobody went in or out, not even the caretaker." Anthea replied.

Mycroft's grip tightened imperceptively on his umbrella handle. "I see." With that, he turned and walked into the cemetary.

The grounds were just as Mycroft remembered them as, lush, green grass, cracked marble, stone worn down to illegibility. And the rain...

He could feel it tapping his umbrella, squelching under his tailored shoes, soaking into his trousers, scenting the air beautifully...

It had been raining the first time Mycroft came here, when he first learned about Lestrade's case. Lestrade hadn't been carrying an umbrella that time, Mycroft was glad that Anthea had thought to give one to him this time.

He saw the funeral-black umbrella lying discarded on the muddy ground before he saw Lestrade, and he saw Lestrade before he saw the gravestones. "Gregory, what-..." Mycroft inhaled sharply when he saw what it was that disturbed Lestrade so.

The five marble gravestones that Lestrade had been here to visit lay in broken heaps on the grass. It had Pupshaw and York written all over it.

Lestrade was sitting straight down on the moist grass, rain and mud soaking through his clothes. His face was pale and haggard and his eyes were red from crying, but he was not crying now, just staring. Mycroft hurried over toward him. "Gregory."

Lestrade blinked his eyes blearily and looked up at Mycroft with a shaky breath. "I just came and the graves were..." He croaked and shook his head, raking a hand through his wet hair. "Sometimes, I don't even know why I bother with this case anymore."

Mycroft moved slowly to stand by the man's shoulder, shifting the umbrella to cover both of them. "But you do." he told the copper. "Because you care. And maybe that's what makes you a fine detective. You'll get them." He did not need to specify who 'they' were.

"I don't know if I can. I'm scared, can you believe it, Mycroft? I'm fucking _scared_ of them!" Lestrade shook his head angrily, angry at himself.

"But you still pursue them." Mycroft shot back. "You're a good man."

"_John's_ a good man," Lestrade retorted, "he has his share of ghosts but that doesn't mean he goes running off into the dark after them." He sniffed and wiped a raindrop that threatened to drip off the tip of his nose. "I don't know if I can do it anymore. I've buried too many friends for this one _bloody_ case... it's not worth it! It's not something I'm willing to sacrifice."

Mycroft blinked blankly at Lestrade, then his features harded and he scoffed harshly. "Don't act the tragic hero, Gregory, it doesn't suit you." Lestrade looked up at him, slightly startled at his biting tone. "I know who your friends are, and I know that that roster is composed mostly of police officers. You're not a man who tolerates fools, Gregory, and your friends don't need protecting." He shifted. "So stop trying to protect them... and ask them to help you."

Lestrade stared at him for a long moment, then glanced at the broken gravestones and let out a hoarse chuckle at the realization that perhaps Mycroft was right. "Would you?" he asked tentatively at length.

"You had but to ask." Mycroft replied smoothly.

Lestrade stared him in the eyes for a moment as if searching for a hint of insecurity. Mycroft did not give him the pleasure of seeing such a thing, he never did, not to anybody. Lestrade smiled slowly, gratefully. "Thanks." He pushed himself up and picked up his discarded umbrella, he remembered dropping it when he first saw the shattered gravestones. He took one last backward glance at the five dismantled graves and his brow pulled ever so slightly inward like it was prone to do when he was on a case that needed Sherlock's singular skill set. "Well, lets get going, then."

Mycroft smiled a little, just a little proud of the bent but not broken man. "What?" Lestrade asked when Mycroft had stared for a moment too long.

"You're a brave man, Gregory." Mycroft intoned thoughtfully. It was rare that he complimented someone so sincerely. In fact, when was the last time he did?

Lestrade blinked, then smiled bashfully. "'Bravery is by far the kindest word of stupidity' wasn't it?"

Mycroft smiled back. "True, you're an idiot." there was no maliciousness behind his words, just an exasperated affection.

"That's what I've got Sherlock for." Lestrade grinned cheekily with a slight chuckle as he walked past Mycroft to leave the cemetery.

Mycroft stepped aside to let him pass and watched him as he walked off, then he smiled a little, shaking his head in amusement, and followed.

* * *

_Unit 34. You know where to find it. -Lestrade_

John glanced at the message on the screen as he passed Sherlock his phone. "What does that mean?" he asked curiously.

Sherlock took one look at the message and practically leapt from the couch as if fired from a human cannon in a circus act. "It means we've got a case." He exclaimed she he rushed around, flinging his coat on.

"'We'?" John asked. "You're sure Greg wants an... outsider in on the case?"

Sherlock furrowed his brow in confusion. John rolled his eyes in exasperation and gestured toward himself. "Oh, don't be an idiot, John."

"I mean it, cause, you never know." Just then, a text buzzed John's phone.

_Sherlock's probably already told you about the case. And if he didn't, good for him, I'm impressed. But you might as well know. -Lestrade_

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in an I-told-you way. "Well, if that's not an invitation..."

John rolled his eyes at his flatmate and grabbed his coat, paused at the sight of his locked desk drawer and decided to bring his gun just in case.

* * *

"Sherlock!" John hissed reprimandingly when his flatmate crouched down to pick the lock on the storage unit. "Just hold on! If Greg called us out here, he should be here with a key right? Just wait for him!" Sherlock scowled at him. "Oh, right, I forgot. You don't do 'waiting'." John drawled back sarcastically.

"But Dr. Watson raises a good point, Sherlock." The Baker Street duo whirled around to see Mycroft standing behind them.

They hadn't even heard the gravel crunch under Mycroft's feet.

"Unreal." John breathed in awe and slight despair.

"Mycroft." Sherlock agreed reluctantly but made it sound like an annoyed growl in his brother's direction.

The man in question produced a key from his pocket. "'With love, from Gregory'." Mycroft smirked tauntingly.

Sherlock snatched the key out of Mycroft's fingers and unlocked the door. He entered first and turned the lights on.

John turned to Mycroft before he entered after his friend. "Where's Greg?"

"He is currently at Scotland Yard with Anthea." Mycroft replied. "He believes he recognizes a few of the hooligans that trashed his flat. Mere vandals, hired help, he's hoping to track them down and gain a lead to Pupshaw and York."

"But-..." John floundered. "Wasn't he on leave?"

Mycroft raised his eyebrows challengingly. "Not anymore."

"That's child's play for Mycroft." Sherlock piped up as he stuck his head out of the storage unit doors. "Are you two going to stand out there forever?" Then he disappeared again.

The two exchanged nearly identical eye rolls and followed.


	38. Trusting

Trusting

Lestrade was down in the archives. He didn't really need to be in the archives because he knew that whatever he found here in relation to the Welles case, Sherlock has already deduced it by now from what he'd given him clearance to.

Lestrade was down in the archives without purpose because it is one of the few places on earth that all non-police officers (Sherlock, John, and Mycroft) had been completely banned from.

He wasn't hiding from Sherlock, Sherlock had already deduced him at his worst. He wasn't hiding from John, John would probably understand that Lestrade had done everything he needed to do when undercover. The ends justify the means, don't they? And he wasn't hiding from Mycroft. After all, the man's PA has a file on him that more than likely incriminates him.

So why was he hiding?

"Lestrade, lights out! Time to go!" The police archivist called out to him as he shrugged on his coat.

"Just a few more minutes!" Lestrade called back like a child begging for a little more time before bedtime. "I'll lock up after myself!"

"Be sure you do!" the man called back as he left. "And don't stay up too late!"

"Okay!"

Lestrade let out an explosive breath and raked his fingers through his hair. He should've taken Mycroft up on his offer to escort him to Unit 34 to meet up with Sherlock and John.

He was also fully aware of why he didn't.

It wasn't like he expected the three of them to turn around and stab him in the back if they knew of the things he'd done as one of Welles's lackeys. They wouldn't do that. But, Lestrade sighed, he also didn't want to be there to see the shock and anger cross their face as they delved into his deep dark secrets. He didn't know if he could look them in the eye again after that.

Lestrade was an honest man, he could afford to admit that he was a little scared. He knew that his friends would understand, he knew that they wouldn't condemn him even if they didn't approve... but that was after they stopped, let the knowledge sink in, and took the situation in from an objective point of view.

Besides, Sherlock is Sherlock, John killed a cabbie, and Mycroft is an evil supervillain with aspirations of world domination. Lestrade being a small-time crook wasn't such a bad thing, was it?

... Of course it was. Even if they didn't think so. Shit!

Lestrade buried his head in his hands and sucked in a calming breath. _Come on! You need their help, and you asked for it! Suck it up and grow a pair! _He mentally berated himself.

He could do this. He had to.

* * *

"I don't believe this." John stated blankly as he flipped through a file. "This is ridiculous. Are you sure this is the same Greg Lestrade we're talking about?" He snapped the thick file closed and tossed it onto the desk where Sherlock was studying another file.

"Of course it is, John." Sherlock replied absently. "He was undercover."

"There are reports of drug dealing, using, armed assault, B&E, organized crime... the list goes on." John sighed. "I just don't see it. Greg's a good man, he'd never allow something like that, much less be a willing participant."

"He was a troublemaker and an addict even before he began working with the police." Sherlock told him. "He told me a little of that time."

"What, really?" John asked incredulously. "Wow..."

"Instead of scrutinizing Gregory's relation to Welles, we should be concentrating on Pupshaw and York's relation to _him_, is that not so, gentlemen?" Mycroft reminded them coolly, not even looking up from the file he was holding.

"Of course, sorry." John had the decency to flush a little as he scrambled to find something useful.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at Mycroft. "Well, someone is in a bad mood today."

"Yes, Sherlock. We have been entrusted with valuable information that not even Scotland Yard is privy to and we are wasting it on idle gossip." Mycroft replied breezily.

"What? Really?" John stared at them. "Scotland Yard doesn't know about this?" He gestured around to their surroundings.

"Two officers; DC Green and DC Hale had been working undercover, detailed reports have been filed by both officers respectively before their untimely deaths. Gregory's involvement on the case was merely as a 'New Scotland Yard informant', his identity never saw the light of day. He was merely referred to as a nameless informant, nothing more." Mycroft explained. "He never testified in court nor gave a statement to the police."

"God..." John let out a breath. "So, none of his collegues know about this either?"

Mycroft and Sherlock shook their heads. "Figures that Pupshaw and York would try to bring it to light." Sherlock said.

"It would destroy Gregory if his friends at work turned on him." Mycroft agreed.

"Well this is all just awful." John grunted angrily, upset at Pupshaw and York. Sherlock and Mycroft exchanged glances and shrugged. Perhaps his anger would be of use to them somehow.

"What do you make of this, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked, plucking out a photo from his file and handing it over to his brother.

Mycroft took it and John craned his head to peer over his shoulder. "What is it?"

It seemed to be a picture taken at a private party of sorts. There were roughly seven men in the picture, all dignified-looking men in suits and ties, combed hair, and bearing crystal glasses of wine. To one side stood Lestrade, obviously alot younger, twenty-eight at the time, his hair black and spiked, alone in his casual jeans and jacket, holding a beer.

"God, he sticks out like a sore thumb." John laughed slightly.

"Naturally John, as usual, you excell at stating the obvious." Sherlock sighed at him contemptuously, rolling his eyes.

"Look at his face." Mycroft advised. "His smile is tense, obviously put on for show, he's not looking at the camera, he's looking at the young blonde man standing next to him."

"That would be Maurice York." Sherlock filled them in.

"The picture looks like something taken spontaneously, but he's standing way to the side." John noted and felt a little thrill of pride when Sherlock smiled at him.

"Yes, like he wants desperately to run out of the picture." Sherlock threw a brief glance at his file. "This picture was taken only a few days before the police moved in for the sting."

"He's nervous." Mycroft stated.

"Desperately." Sherlock nodded. "Why?"

"Maybe it's because he's surrounded by six men who would want to kill him if they found out what he was doing." John suggested dryly.

"Lestrade may be an idiot, but he's no coward." Sherlock said.

"That's probably the nicest thing you've ever said about him." Mycroft drawled sardonically. "Sherlock, don't be redundant. His bravery is nearly infamous."

"Stupidity." Sherlock shot back, eyebrows raised in challenge.

"He spits on my opinion of that." Mycroft said breezily.

"Gentlemen, if we can get back on track?" John said, almost physically inserting himself between the bickering brothers.

"So, there's something else, other than the impending sting operation that's causing stress. But what?" Sherlock wondered aloud.

"You know, you can just ask him." John sighed in exasperation.

"Excellent idea, John." Sherlock said, not even looking at his flatmate as he returned to his studying. "Thank you for volunteering."

"Oh, he walked into that one." Mycroft jeered with a quiet dignity that only he could pull off without sounding like an immature seven-year-old.

"Oh, great..." John sighed to himself as he fished his phone out of his pocket. "...Shit." He then left the unit to find a cab.

When John was gone, Sherlock glanced at his brother over the top of his file. "You trust him." he said slowly. "You trust that every single law Lestrade broke was necessary for his job?"

Mycroft stopped his reading and looked back at Sherlock. "Yes, I do."

"You can't prove it's true." Sherlock pointed out seriously.

"You can't prove it isn't." Mycroft replied testily.

"He was a crook before he ever became a cop." Sherlock said. "I've done a little investigating on him myself. You know, he sleeps with his gun in the drawer of his nightstand and keeps a switchblade in a shoebox hidden in his closet. He's commited crimes before, Mycroft, who's to say he didn't just fall back into the lifestyle? There is nothing besides his word that ties him into ever working with the police as an informant. He's not exactly a saint, Mycroft."

"And neither are you, Sherlock." Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Neither is Dr. Watson, nor I."

"And you're sure that you've placed your trust in the right place?" Sherlock asked him.

"I trust him more than I trust you, Sherlock." Mycroft sighed in exasperation.

"You don't trust me all that much." Sherlock shot back.

"I don't trust _anybody_ all that much." Mycroft agreed wryly. "What brought this doubt on, Sherlock?"

Sherlock regarded his brother carefully. "Lestrade and York were lovers, Mycroft."

Mycroft's jaw clenched and he swallowed thickly. "I see." he responded stiffly.

"Still trust him?" Sherlock asked him, eyes boring into Mycroft's very soul.

Mycroft glared at his younger brother. "I'd give him the benefit of the doubt."

Sherlock held his stare for a moment as if testing his conviction before a slight smirk spread across his sharp features. "Good."


	39. Drunk

Drunk

Lestrade was out of the Scotland Yard archives and down at a pub having a drink or two with Anthea by the time John found him. Well, 'a drink or two' was putting it lightly. He was drunk... pretty drunk, not enough to get up on a table and confess to the other patrons that he was once an undercover cop and that his past was coming back to bite him in the arse kind of drunk...

But he seemed to be getting there.

Anthea was drinking a cranberry juice and kindly sitting silently on the other side of the table as the man got steadily drunker, her eyes were on her Blackberry as usual and she seemed to ignore him. It was not as if he was talking or blubbering on her, he was watching the TV quietly.

Too quietly. He seemed to be staring straight through the TV screen as if it was a portal to the years past.

"Greg, how are you holding up?" John asked when he approached the table with his own pint.

Lestrade blinked out of his trance and looked at John. "Fine, good, Anthea is wonderful company."

Anthea sent him a sympathetic look. "Thanks, Inspector." Then she stood up and walked away, evidently sensing that the two men needed a few moments alone.

John sat down in the newly vacated seat and shifted to make himself more comfortable. Lestrade cleared his throat nervously and mirrored his movement but seemed to grow more uncomfortable with every shift. They finally settled into an uncomfortable silence.

Lestrade cleared his throat. "So... how's the investigation coming along?" he asked almost reluctantly.

"It's good." John replied quickly. "Really, it's good. Sherlock's getting somewhere I'm sure."

"Okay... good." Lestrade trailed off awkwardly and they spiralled into an oppresive silence again.

John took a large swig of his beer as if to gather courage. "We don't think any less of you, Greg." he blurted and Lestrade blinked at him, slightly hazy on the details. "We know that you did what you had to do, we can't blame you for that. I'd just like you to know that, first and foremost. ... I think it's important."

Lestrade stared at him for a moment over his glass, then he lowered it. "Thanks... I appreciate that." He smiled weakly and John returned it.

They drank in silence again. Lestrade ordered another beer. "So..." John started.

"You've got questions, I know how this goes." Lestrade nodded understandingly but sighed reluctantly when John nodded back. "Alright, I'll try my best to be of some help."

John placed the picture he got from Sherlock on the table and nudged it toward Lestrade. "Sherlock want's to know what was going on here."

Lestrade blinked and glanced at the picture briefly before averting his gaze almost guiltily. "It was York's birthday party... I think."

"He said you looked nervous about something." John hedged.

"It was about... a week before the sting operation." Lestrade replied.

"Sherlock thought there was more to it than that." John added slowly.

Lestrade returned his gaze to the picture and studied it more closely. "Oh..."

"Something?" John asked.

Lestrade suddenly leaned back in his seat with a heavy sigh and pushed the picture in John's direction. "It's, um, ... I guess I should tell you about it." He sighed to himself.

"About what?" John asked, his beer already forgotton.

Lestrade took another swig of his beer and stared at a point on the surface of the table. "Does it ever say how I infiltrated Welles's organization? In the files, I mean." he asked slowly. John shook his head and Lestrade continued. "I, um, I used drugs... alot. I knew a few guys who dealt under Welles's supervision and hit off with a few of them. They knew me, I knew them, and one day one of them came down with a flu and I filled in for him. I was good at it, you know. I'm not proud of it, but I knew how things worked around there. I started getting introduced to knew faces higher up the ladder, I guess I was easily likeable, I did good work and I was easy to please." Lestrade paused in his story for a brief moment to take another gulp of alcohol and John imitated him, suddenly remembering his own drink. "I worked for Welles's group for a while before I met York, Welles's nephew."

John choked up his beer. "His nephew?" he asked as he wiped his chin with the back of his hand, surprised. "It didn't say that anywhere in the files."

Lestrade nodded wryly. "That's because it wasn't common knowledge. York was smart and he had Welles's charisma, I think he was being groomed to take over after his uncle. Anyway, I met him, we talked a bit, York was still getting an education at Oxford at the time, against his uncle's wishes, and we didn't see much of each other... but, we liked each other, you know? There were the posh upper class people higher up the ladder, and there were the more expendable lackeys. But, unlike most of the people in our respective classes of society, we were friendly with each other." John nodded slowly. "And I started visiting Oxford when I could, we became friends and York started to trust me. He told me about Welles being his uncle and the great expectations people had of him, he was just a normal kid who wanted a normal life, you know?" John nodded again. "He had these stories that he heard from Welles as a boy. 'Once, my uncle used a fishing boat to smuggle drugs...' 'Once, my uncle had a policeman on his payroll...' 'Once, my uncle had to shut somebody up...'"

Lestrade raked his fingers through his hair and let out a breath. "He had these horror-like stories to tell about his uncle, and everytime he wanted to get them off his chest, I was there to listen. And I told DCI Bates everything about what I'd heard from him. York, he trusted me, he liked me... he may have even loved me." Lestrade moved to drink from his glass when he realized it was empty. "God... I'm going to get another drink, another for you?"

John shook his head and raised his still half-filled glass. "No, I'm good, thanks."

Lestrade got himself another drink and returned. He sat down heavily in his seat and stared at something on the floor near his left foot for a while. Then he resumed his story. "We had a thing... you know, like an - um - intimate thing." God, it was awkward. "York really liked me... and I wanted to hear more of his stories so I went along with it. A few months later, he dropped out of school and moved back with with his uncle in London. He introduced me to Welles then, it was the first time I'd actually seen him, you know. By that time, I wasn't doing too bad for myself. I was a good dealer, a hard worker who could keep my cool, and I was his nephew's lover. He and I didn't exactly get along like a house on fire or anything. He was a big-headed aristocrat and I was a punk with decent street smarts, he wore his fancy suits and carried around this pratish walking stick and I wore my ripped jeans, jackets, and galivanted around on a motorbike... it didn't really help that that was the moment York took to finally come out of the closet, you know."

John giggled a little at that. "I can imagine he didn't like you too much."

"Yeah." Lestrade nodded to himself with a reminiscent half-smile. "But he wasn't hostile, he just took his sweet time in warming up to the idea of me being his nephew's lover. The information the police needed started coming in quicker after that. Welles started integrating York more and more into his business and York would always confide in me about their work." Lestrade frowned deeply, his forehead creasing at a memory. "And then DC Hale, who was undercover as a dealer, got caught snooping around in Pupshaw's office. Nothing could be proven but the suspicion was there, Hale needed out of the operation quickly before his cover was blown but he couldn't just disappear so the Yard sped up the date for the sting. I never actually met Hale before, but I knew about him and I convinced York to ask Welles to put off any drastic action until after York's birthday."

"That's what you were nervous about." John nodded to him. "Hale was about to have his cover blown wide open and that would've messed up the entire operation."

Lestrade nodded back. "I was also nervous because ten minutes before that picture was taken, I was snooping in Welles's office behind everybody's back while they were attending the party."

John's eyes widened. "What? What in God's name for? After catching DC Hale snooping, wasn't that excessively dangerous?"

Lestrade nodded. "But I felt that I need to do something. I snuck in and made a few select changes in Pupshaw's reports, gave a few wrong numbers in statistics, some bad intel..."

"To discredit him." John nodded understandingly.

"And it worked." Lestrade told him with a sigh. "Well, almost."

"Almost?"

"I told you, York was smart. He had a sneaking suspicion that I was lying to him but I guess he put it off for so long because he didn't want to believe it was true. He confronted me the night after the birthday party and I swore to him, cross my heart, that I would never lie to him or betray him." Lestrade took a shaky sip of his beer. "I didn't know that the police brought the date of the sting forward, I had no idea. But it happened anyway. I can say honestly that it took us both by surprise. We escaped but, um, Pupshaw, who was York's bodyguard, suspected that I was working with the police. York didn't want to believe it but Pupshaw wouldn't be convinced, so they decided to test me."

"Test you?" John asked when Lestrade was quiet for a moment too long. "What did they plan?"

Lestrade inhaled a shaky breath. "I was there, John." he whispered with a haunted expression. "I could do anything to stop them." He gulped at his beer.

John felt unease churling in his stomache. "Couldn't stop what?" He knew that Lestrade's reply would be something that he didn't want to hear, but he had to ask.

Lestrade avoided his gaze as he downed the rest of his beer, his eyes were slightly glassy but it was obvious that he was nowhere near forgetting his demons. "It was my fault." he mumbled as he set his glass down.

"What was, Greg?" John asked him. He saw Anthea approaching, ready to escort the drunken man back to Mycroft's safehouse.

"I was there, John." The copper said again, eyes hollow. "When they executed everybody."

John bit his lip and fought down bile.


	40. Guilty

Guilty

Sherlock found John back at Baker Street after the man had disappeared to go talk to Lestrade. The ex-military man was sitting in his designated armchair in front of the lit fireplace and he was toying with the British army L9A1 in his hand. His eyes were hard and his lips pressed into thin lines.

"What did he say?" Sherlock asked from the doorway across the room. He couldn't be certain that John wouldn't startle violently and instictively shoot something for the sheer tenseness he was currently engulfed in and the more reasonable part of him wanted at least the front door between him and the gun should it accidentally happen.

Sherlock shot walls that did not move. John was trained to shoot people. It would do him good to remember that when he annoyed the man.

John jumpled slightly, but he didn't react otherwise. "He said he was nervous about DC Hale's cover being blown. He was stalling at York's birthday party so that the police would have time enough to get the sting operation swinging before any of them realized the police were onto them and make a dash for it." John released his hold on his gun and placed it down carefully on his armrest. But Sherlock could see his fingers twitching eagerly for the weapon.

"It's not all he said, is it?" Sherlock noted perceptively.

The detective could see muscles tightening in the military man's jaw. "_Nope._" was John's clipped reply.

Sherlock edged closer, tugging his coat off and tossing it over the back of their sofa. "What did he say?"

John frowned, a wrinkle forming between his eyes. "He watched them die, Sherlock." he said. "Those sick _bastards_ made him watch." Sherlock sat down almost silently in his own seat as he waited for John to continue. "DC Hale was caught loitering around in Pupshaw's office for information and they were about to, um, 'get rid of him' but Greg convinced them to delay whatever they were planning until after York's birthday party. Pupshaw suspected that Greg was also a mole and when the police swooped in Pupshaw, York, and Greg escaped. Pupshaw decided to test him by going after the coppers responsible; PC Dexter, DC Hale, DC Green, DS Carter, and DCI Bates."

Sherlock could see the muscles in John's jaw working spasmodically. Tighten, relax. Tighten, relax.

"They decided that if Greg played along that meant he wasn't working with the police, and if he resisted, they'd just get rid of him." The fingers of John's left hand tapped at his knee. "So he played along. He knew that those officers would die anyway even if he didn't. He warned them what was going on and DCI Bates told him to play along, they couldn't let Pupshaw and York know of his relations to the police and put him in danger. The officers scattered, dropped off the grid, got protection... But Pupshaw and York found them anyway. They killed them and Greg was there but he couldn't do anything, couldn't even react like his friends were being killed before his eyes. God, Sherlock, it's _killing_ him!"

John rubbed the heel of his hands into his eyesockets. "Are you alright?" Sherlock asked softly. Which was strange on so many levels because Sherlock never did 'soft'.

John shook his head. "I was a medic in the army, Sherlock, I saw friends die-... soldiers." He paused for a moment. "On the field, the medic is one of the most protected soldiers, his unit needs him. I-it's one thing to see them die by enemy fire - I mean - it _is_ a war and we go in prepared for collateral damage. But it's a whole different feeling knowing that some of them died to protect you." John took a deep breath. "And it's painful on so many non-physical levels, it bloody _hurts_, sometimes!"

"Survivor's guilt." Sherlock murmured understandingly.

John bit the knuckle of his right pointer finger. "I was a soldier, a medic, I was prepared for that. Greg he-... he wasn't. God, he was fucking twenty-eight!" He whipped his hand away from his mouth so quickly and forcefully that one of his teeth tore at the thin skin covering the knuckle. He gripped his armrests to keep his hands from twitching aimlessly. "It's enough to make anybody clam up about it. No wonder nobody knew about it, especially not his collegues." He looked at Sherlock angrily. "How can someone do _that_ to a good man like Greg? I've seen alot of crime since meeting you, Sherlock, and they're horrifying, and gruesome, and awful, but this just takes the cake!"

Sherlock could almost hear what hadn't been said. 'Nobody messes with my unit and gets away with it.' This was not Dr. Watson, the sweet doctor who worked at the clinic and helped little old ladies cross the street. This was Captain Watson of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers.

He was a soldier. He had bad days. And he killed people.

"We're going to get them, John." Sherlock told his flatmate firmly. _Dead, or alive._

* * *

Lestrade woke up in his bed at Mycroft's safehouse. He didn't remember getting there, nor the car ride that he knew must've occurred at one point or another. He decided to get something nice for Anthea for putting up with him. A fruit basket, maybe. Or flowers. ... Perhaps even a new BlackBerry.

He groaned and rubbed his crusty eyes. He froze, remembering what occured last night with John. _Shit._ He was _so_ not ready to deal with this.

He pushed his way out of bed and staggered to the bathroom to wash up, and then to the kitchen for coffee... and breakfast... maybe. He debated silently with himself whether he'd be able to keep it down.

He went through the motions of making his coffee and sat down at the table with the morning paper that Anthea always hand delivered. He liked doing the crossword puzzles even if he could never finish them.

He wondered how far Sherlock got into the investigation. He wondered if John had already told the Holmeses everything. ...He wondered about Mycroft's reaction to the knowledge.

He raised his porcelain mug and sipped at his coffee.

* * *

There were no less than twelve security cameras planted in various parts of Mycroft's safehouse, one for every door, window, and room. The camera trained on the library window caught sight of four men in black balaclavas breaking in the window before one of them looked up and saw the camera. The man picked up a rather sizeable stone from the garden...

... And then the camera saw nothing more.

_Security breach. Emergency!_


	41. Kidnapped

Kidnapped

Lestrade hurt.

...Yes, well, he was always one for understatement. His whole body ached from a beating that he guessed he had been subjected to while he was unconscious, and his head pulsed from a very specific point near his right temple. ...Oh, yeah. That was from when the intruders snuck into Mycroft's safehouse and shoved him headfirst into the kitchen counter before they whipped an itchy sack over his head and kidnapped him.

He didn't know whether to be more scared of the fact that they _broke into Mycroft's secure safehouse_ or of the fact that it was Pupshaw and York who were responsible for it.

The scratchy sack was still draped over his head and his hands had been tied behind him. He was lying on his side on a concrete floor and the room temperature was cooler than usual.

Thanks to the many meetings with Mycroft before they had become friends, Lestrade knew exactly what the stale air of a warehouse or a basement felt like.

He could hear footsteps and voices murmuring in hushed tones and he kept very, very still in hopes that his kidnappers would not notice that he had regained consciousness.

A pair of carefully calculating footsteps neared him cautiously, hesitantly, kneeling by his side... He felt a gentle hand on his shoulder rolling him onto his back and couldn't stifle a slight groan at the pain of his tied hands digging into his sore back.

The hand on his shoulder stiffened and he heard a soft gasp, the visitor did not expect to find Lestrade awake. Then the sack was removed from his head. Lestrade slowly blinked his eyes open.

The room was devoid of all light save the electric lamp that Lestrade's visitor had brought with him. In the light, Lestrade could make out the man's features. "... Maurice." he mumbled, coughing slightly through his gravelly voice.

York looked down at him, his expression tug-of-warring between concerned and cold. "_Alec_." He breathed like a man who had just found a precious possession that had been long lost. "...Alec!" he said again, this time his voice was filled with poison and betrayal. "Oh, Alec..." York sighed, shaking his head sadly. "Look at me, I don't know whether to greet you like a friend or an enemy."

Lestrade's tongue flicked out to moisten his lips and he swallowed despite his dry throat. "Maurice, I-..." He closed his mouth. "I don't know what to say to you." he admitted almost sheepishly.

"You never did." York chuckled back reminiscently. The hand on Lestrade's shoulder moved to cup the side of his neck, the pad of his thumb rubbing circles on his pulse point, sending shivers down Lestrade's spine.

Oh, God. Maurice couldn't still-... Not after all these years. Could he?

Lestrade pressed his aching eyes closed. "Oh God, I'm sorry." he breathed labourously.

"Don't be." York cooed back almost soothingly. "I didn't exactly condone what my uncle did, either." The hand on Lestrade's neck rose and suddenly twisted violently into his silvery hair. "But you didn't have to lie to me, Alec!" York hissed venomously. His speed in changing moods was just marginally slower than Moriarty's. More... thought out. A little less insane.

Lestrade's breath came in ragged as his head was raised a few inches only to be driven back into the floor. York was never violent, _never_. That was Pupshaw's job.

"You used me, you bastard!" York continued, his voice raised to an enraged scream. "I loved you!" The hand twisted in Lestrade's hair shook jerkily and the copper felt a few strands snap loose from the force of it. "I _loved_ you..." York's voice almost seemed to receed and whimper weakly like a sadened child's.

Lestrade took a calming breath and opened his eyes again. "I know, Maurice... and I'm sorry for that."

York released his death grip on Lestrade's hair and rocked back on his heels, hugging his knees. He looked so young and lost, the shy little princeling that Alec befriended. Always hiding behind his books, never giving his heart away to be broken, Lestrade knew he was partially to blame for the man's hostility. As far as Lestrade remembered, York never got angry.

And now that he was, he had no idea what to do with it.

Lestrade sucked in another breath, ignoring the way his lungs ached. "Maurice," he called out softly. "I'm sorry, I never meant to hurt you." he spoke softly, soothingly. Everything was alright, it was going to be fine... as long as he kept the panic at bay for the moment.

York's head jerked up at his words and his face contorted in anger. "The road to Hell is paved with good intentions." he spat.

"Well in my humble opinion, Hell's still relatively far off, I think." Lestrade forced out a weak chuckle. "Maurice, listen to me. This isn't right. This-... the life of a criminal isn't right for you."

York scoffed. "That wasn't what you said when my uncle drew me into his 'circle of friends'."

"No." Lestrade shook his head. "And-... I don't expect you to believe me or anything, but I had plans to extract you from your uncle's business before things got out of hand. Before the police came. I thought we had all the time in the world." York stared at a pebble lying between his feet. "I knew you were a good person and you were uncomfortable with the things your uncle did, I know." Lestrade continued, biting his lip. "If you could believe me, I never wanted you to become a criminal."

"It's a bit late for an apology." York intoned coldly.

"I know." Lestrade nodded slowly. "But it doesn't hurt for you to know that I am sorry." York stared at him, Lestrade steeled his nerves and stared right back.

"Imagine my surprise." York sighed. "When Pupshaw and I decided you were loyal... only to hear about you becoming a copper a few months later."

"I'm sorry." Lestrade breathed, uneasy at the flare in York's eyes.

"I lost my only family, Alec." York spat accusingly.

"Well, so did I, Maurice." That gave York a startled pause.

Suddenly, there was a loud clatter and the door flew open. Pupshaw charged in, eyes ablaze when he saw Lestrade was conscious. He stauntered over to them and roughly hauled Lestrade to his feet, sending a flare of pain up his captive's arm. "That's enough of your poisonous words!" he hissed. "Maurice may have believed them once, but they're not going to work on him again." He looked over to where York was still sitting. "The police are coming, we have to go."

York nodded numbly back at Pupshaw. "Come on." The bodyguard growled, whether it was to Lestrade, or York, neither knew. The larger blonde dragged Lestrade roughly out of the room. Lestrade saw York's mouth open briefly as if he wanted to protest at the treatment, but he clamped his mouth shut and stubbornly looked away.

They could hear sirens approaching in the distance as Lestrade was dragged up out of the basement to ground level. Pupshaw tugged his arm and motioned to a getaway car inside the warehouse.

Pupshaw unceremoniously shoved Lestrade in the back as he settled into the driver's seat and turned the key in the ignition as they waited on York to join them, having fallen behind. The engine let out a cough and died. Once, twice... Pupshaw grunted impatiently.

"Please, stop your pathetic resistance. You are embarrassing yourself, and me more so to have to watch this sad act."

Oh, in the depths of Hell came the voice of an angel. ... Albeit, a very sardonic and pratish sounding angel.

Mycroft Holmes walked out of the shadows of a support beam near the front of the car. "Get out of the car, Pupshaw, if you will."

And suddenly, Lestrade found the barrel of a gun in his face. "You heard the man." Pupshaw growled.

Lestrade grimaced. "Well, actually, he told _you_ to get out of the car..." Pupshaw cocked the gun's hammer. "Okay, getting out of the car now." Lestrade scooted over a few inches and kicked the passenger door open unsteadily with his foot. "Fucking bossy..." he grumbled under his breath.

Right now, he couldn't care less for the glare Pupshaw sent his way. He wanted a nice, warm bath, and his bed. ... And a holiday. A real one. One without criminals and consulting detectives. He would even settle for taking time off with doctors and supervillains.

Supervillains with umbrellas. And creepy CCTVs. And tailored three-piece suits.

... And doctors. Yeah, doctors... the medical kind. The kind that would be compelled to treat the obvious concussion he was sporting. _Keep it together, Lestrade!_ he berated himself.

And right now, he wanted Sherlock to charge in and help because poking a gun into a helpless man's bruised, if not, broken ribs should not be legal. Lestrade's vision swam and darkened around the edges as he fought down the sudden urge to vomit.

"Pupshaw," Mycroft sighed to the man holding Lestrade hostage as if he were an errant child. "put the gun down." Pupshaw licked his lips nervously and adjusted his grip on his gun. "You have no way out, the warehouse is surrounded by the police." Mycroft told him. "This is revenge for York, you have no obligation to die for it."

John and Sherlock quietly infiltrated the warehouse through the front door almost in the same moment that Donovan and Dimmock appeared through the back. Several S.W.A.T personnel silently slipped through the second floor windows and leveled their guns at Pupshaw.

Lestrade squinted. That S.W.A.T team wasn't part of the police force as far as Lestrade knew... Bloody Hell, Mycroft! Overkill... serious overkill.

And suddenly, the floor seemed to jump up at him and his knees ached when Pupshaw kicked them out from under him, forcing them down hard on the concrete flooring. A vicious hand twisted into his hair jerked his head backward, forcing him to look up at the ceiling and Pupshaw's gun prodded his scalp dangerously close to the injury already marring his pale skin.

Lestrade twisted in Pupshaw's unforgiving grip instinctively and his hands strained in their bonds but he could not budge an inch. He let out a low groan and pressed his eyes shut against the dim but almost too bright lights hanging from the warehouse's ceiling, his head throbbing painfully.

"Do you honestly want to do this?" Mycroft spoke again calmly. "Because I do not see a way out for you."

After a tense moment, Pupshaw removed the gun from Lestrade's head and held up his hands in resignation. As everybody's eyes followed the man's movement and Dimmock and Donovan cuffed him, Lestrade caught sight of York slipping out of the basement and up to the second floor and out of sight.

"Gregory." Mycroft called, getting his attention.

"Mycroft, glad you could make it." Lestrade let out a wheezy chuckle.

There was a loud bang that echoed throughout the warehouse and everybody jumped. Several of the S.W.A.T team combed through the second floor with Sherlock and John on their heels and found York's body, a bullet through his temple and a warm gun in his hand.

"Clear." Someone shouted, backing out of the room. "We have a man down."

"Well, that was bloody anti-climatic." John sighed disappointedly, slipping his gun into the waistband of his jeans, a little peeved at not needing to use it.

"Well, what do you expect." Lestrade sighed as they untied him and bundled him into the back of an awaiting ambulance. "This is reality, not some action movie."

"It bloody well should be! I would even settle for a TV show." John shrugged as he shone a penlight into Lestrade's sensitive eyes. "We could call it..." John glanced around for inspiration and his eyes fell on his flatmate. "...Sherlock!" He blurted out.

Lestrade stared at John incredulously. John blinked back. Then they both grinned, laughing. "_Nah_!"

"No one wants to know the details about Sherlock, believe me!"

"Yeah, really. Who'd be that insane?"

"Who indeed?"


	42. Bereft

Bereft

There was a dent in the safehouse's kitchen counter, if anyone cared to look closely.

Lestrade shuddered and straightened himself cautiously from his observations. John and the other doctors were still unsure of whether it was safe for Lestrade to be up and about already. There were several pains and injuries that Lestrade had been unaware of during his hostage situation.

He had known about his obvious concussion and bruised ribs, those were a bit hard to ignore. He did _not_ know about his broken wrist, bruised back, and dislocated shoulder. There was a massive swelling at the corner of Lestrade's mouth as well as on his left eye and a wonderfully colourful bruise had grown on his cheekbone like a rainbow hadn't been feeling well and had thrown up on him. Lestrade sat down on a kitchen stool and leaned his elbow on the counter, propping his head up on his hand comfortably without touching his wounds.

He had been given the reports on the case while in the hospital.

Either Pupshaw and York had very good timing in kidnapping him, or Lestrade's luck was just that bad. It was a series of unfortunate events, really.

It had started with Pupshaw and a few of his men breaking into Mycroft's safehouse to grab Lestrade. Anthea was clued in on the emergency and she had arrived on the scene just as Pupshaw was scurrying off with Lestrade in unconscious custody.

She pursued. Pupshaw evaded. And there was nothing short of a five-car pile-up downtown. At least she did her best. Because, honestly, who expected that tiny oil spill to completely derail the chase?

Bruised, strapped to her carseat by her seatbelt, car upside down on its roof, Anthea somehow had the presence of mind to call an ambulance and text Mycroft...

...Who happened to be in a meeting with the Prime Minister.

It had taken him a full five minutes to extract himself from the meeting and to read the text, curse brilliantly under his breath, and text Sherlock...

...Who had been traipsing around in his 'Mind Palace' at the time, reviewing the details of Lestrade's case. John had returned to Baker Street from work ten minutes later, saw the text and flipped out, shaking Sherlock violently out of his Mind Palace.

With an utter reluctance that cost them twelve minutes, Sherlock called in Donovan and Dimmock to make arrests since John argued that Lestrade was in no position to do so himself.

It took twenty minutes of ignoring Sherlock before being brutally reminded that it was Lestrade's life that hung in the balance before the police joined in the search.

By that time, Mycroft was taking hold of every CCTV in London and rounding up his own S.W.A.T team... just in case. Around the same time, Anthea was dug out of the traffic collision and had been carted off to the hospital after giving the police on-scene the license plate of Pupshaw's car.

Donovan and Dimmock tracked the car down and found it through the GPS signal before moving out and running into Sherlock, John, and Mycroft at the warehouse.

Sherlock and John had deduced Pupshaw and York's whereabouts through extensive research on Lestrade's casefiles in Unit 34. The warehouse had once been a drop-off point for drugs before the police raided it. Quite impressive considering there were at least twenty such spots scattered throughout London and Sherlock had correctly pointed out _that_ warehouse. Lestrade didn't even bother asking how he did it.

Mycroft had simply followed Pupshaw's progress through London through CCTVs and when they had neared the warehouse where there were no cameras, he had extrapolated where Pupshaw could and could not have gone, and zeroed in on the right place.

It was an outstanding story to hear, and must've been downright creepy to actually participate in. Three different teams, three different leads, three very different methods, and they all arrived on the scene nearly at the exact same timing.

And then they joined forces for all of ten minutes in which they arrested Pupshaw, recovered York's body, and rushed Lestrade to a hospital... and then they fell back into bickering like children.

In fact, according to Dimmock, they had been arguing whether to put Pupshaw in jail for a very, very long time, put an unloaded gun in his hand and let John take a few shots at him in 'self defense', or to hand him over to whatever evil the two Holmes brothers had in store for him.

Pupshaw had vehemently pleaded to be sent to jail.

It was... Lestrade didn't quite know how to explain how he felt when he heard the whole story. First of all, he had been slightly embarrassed at being caught off guard and kidnapped, then worried about Anthea's crash, amused at the reasons of slow response throughout the very short chain of his friends, amazed at the miracle of all of them working together to an extent, ... and extensively humbled in the knowledge that they all had shoved down their extreme dislike of each other long enough in order to help him.

It filled him with all sorts of warm and fuzzy feelings that were not bad, but also not good for his usually gruff and professional persona. He had a reputation to keep, after all.

He wouldn't mind getting kidnapped again sometime... just as long as hospitals and guns and car crashes were left out of the equation. The cast on his wrist was itching something horrible.

He was on leave, as expected. Anthea was accompanying him, also recuperating from her car crash. They were not particularly friendly, nor were they unfriendly so it was alright.

It was also funny to see Anthea itching for the BlackBerry that Mycroft had confinscated for at least three days into her recovery. Any other person and it would be for at least a week or more, but Anthea's attachment to her phone was one of the supporting pillars for the survival of the universe, or something like that.

The doorbell rang and Anthea opened the door to find Mycroft standing there. "Sir." she greeted with a touch of Winter in her voice. As Mycroft had once remarked to Lestrade, the woman could hold grudges like nobody's business.

"Mycroft!" Lestrade grinned as he walked out of the kitchen to see him. "I don't think you need to ring the doorbell, you know, you have a key and it _is_ your house."

Mycroft shrugged. "I do not live here, as opposed to you, Gregory." he responded mildly.

"What are you doing here?" Lestrade asked him curiously.

Mycroft shifted his weight nervously. "I was hoping... that is, if you would be so kind..." Lestrade raised an eyebrow and Mycroft sighed. "There is the serious matter of identifying York's body. He has no living relatives left."

Lestrade let his eyes fall closed and he let out a breath, biting back curses. "Okay, just a sec, let me get my shoes."

Mycroft glanced down at Lestrade's bare feet. "Where _are_ your shoes, Gregory?" he huffed lightly.

Lestrade shrugged. "I like the feeling of hardwood under my bare feet, alright?" He disappeared into his bedroom and reappeared a few seconds later with his shoes in hand. "Okay, lets go."

* * *

"Here you are." Molly handed Lestrade a plastic cup of water and patted his shoulder comfortingly after all the horrors of identifying York's body.

"Thanks." Lestrade nodded at the shy pathologist and watched her leave.

"Are you alright?" Mycroft asked when they were alone. They were sitting on uncomfortable plastic chairs in the hall outside the mortuary.

"Just a bit unnerved." Lestrade sighed. "I mean, I've seen alot of dead bodies, don't get me wrong... I've never had to identify anybody's body. _Ever. _Not even Bates's."

They sat in silence for a while.

"I didn't..." Lestrade paused, mid-sentence. "I didn't go to Bates's funeral, you know? I didn't go to any of theirs. Couldn't."

Mycroft nodded understandingly. "That would make no sense as you 'had no relation to them'."

Lestrade swallowed a mouthful of water. "Everybody who knows the truth about this case, you, John, Sherlock, Anthea ... you all tell me it's not my fault. That none of it was. But I can't help thinking it isn't true." He shook his head with a sigh. "If I didn't get involved with Maurice, he would never have gotten involved in his uncle's organization. And he wouldn't have wanted revenge on me or the police." He looked sideways at Mycroft. "I don't mean to defend him, or anything, but he wasn't always a criminal."

"That was his choice, Gregory." Mycroft told him. "To murder the officers involved, to take revenge on you. That was his choice, not yours, it's all on him. He knew that what he was doing was wrong. He knew that, and he took his own life."

"If it wasn't for me, he wouldn't have to feel that he had to. I remember the time Pupshaw took us both to DC Hale's safehouse and killed him, Maurice couldn't watch and ran outside to vomit. He had nightmares about it for days. Hell, I had nightmares about it." Lestrade crumpled up his empty cup and tossed it toward the garbage bin. It hit the edge of the bin and glanced off. The bin was three feet away, it was Lestrade's aim that was unsteady. "Sometimes I think, if we had met under different circumstances, we might've been good friends." Lestrade was quiet for a moment before he groaned. "It may be redundant, but I wish I could change it, you know? The past."

"It's not an altogether good past." Mycroft conceeded. "But it _is_ the past, Gregory. And you are no longer there. The people you knew back then may be gone and left you bereft, but please do not forget the people you have now. Sherlock, for one, would never stand for it. He'd think it tedious to wear in a new officer."

Lestrade let out a sigh-y chuckle as he stared at the crushed cup on the floor and nodded slowly. "I just can't quite believe that it's over... after so many years."

"I know." Mycroft slid out of his seat and picked the cup up, dropping it into the bin. "Lets get you home, Gregory." he said quietly.

Lestrade nodded again.

* * *

"This isn't the way to your safehouse." Lestrade remarked rhetorically when they took a wrong turn.

Mycroft shrugged. "No, it isn't. We're going to your favorite restaurant to get something to eat first."

Lunch was wonderful, as usual, and filled with exuberant hugs from Sandy and shoulder pats from Jonah. Lestrade smiled for the first time since he and Mycroft left the mortuary. The two restaurant owners never failed to cheer him up.

After lunch, they got back into Mycroft's car and drove off. "Um, Mycroft, I don't mean to repeat myself over and over... but we're _still_ not on the road to your safehouse." Lestrade deadpanned.

Mycroft smiled slightly. "No, we are not." Ten minutes later, they pulled up at Lestrade's flat. The flat that had been broken in and trashed. Yes, that one. Lestrade was still a bit edgy about it all. "Don't worry, everything was replaced as it was before." Mycroft assured him.

"Everything?" Lestrade asked suspiciously. "Because you know where everything goes? Oh, wait, of course you do. Nevermind." He stepped out of the car and walked around to Mycroft's side, placing a hand on it before Mycroft could open it and step out. "See you, then?"

Obviously, he wanted time alone. Mycroft smiled and nodded. "Later, Gregory."

He watched Lestrade pull back his shoulders and raise his chin like a man going to war and then he disappeared into his flat.

Mycroft nodded to Jason, his driver, and the car pulled away from the curb.


	43. Depressed

Depressed

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_

Lestrade was down in the shooting range when Dimmock came looking for him. The older man squeezed off a few more shots and emptied his clip. Then he put his gun down on the shelf and turned to his friend.

"Hey, Dimmock. What's up?" he asked, pulling off the protective gear from his ears and squinting at his target.

"_You_ are, that's what." Dimmock scowled.

"Oh-... oh, no. Don't start with me, Dimmock." Lestrade groaned in despair.

"No, _you_ don't be so stubborn!" Dimmock exclaimed sternly. "You're not supposed to be here-... Hell, I don't think you're even supposed to be out of the hospital yet! You should be glad that Mister Holmes can pull strings."

"Dimmock..."

"And what are you doing down here, shooting things?" Dimmock cut him off.

"It's my left wrist that is broken. If you haven't noticed, I shoot with my right." Lestrade drawled sarcastically.

"Seriously though, you're hobbling through the building like a zombie with a colourful face, and it's creeping out alot of the other officers, it's not natural. Come on, I'll take you home." Dimmock sighed at his stubborn friend.

"I'm fine." Lestrade grumbled petulantly but did not protest when Dimmock cleared his shooting equipment away.

Then, Dimmock noticed, he was a sharp lad, after all. Lestrade hadn't so much as looked at him since he came in. Dimmock sighed at his friend and shifted his weight from one foot to the other nervously but didn't cross his arms or shove his hands in his pockets. He didn't want a barrier between himself and Lestrade, he wanted his words to be taken seriously.

"Whatever happened, whatever relation you had to that case, nobody knows anything about it." He said slowly. "Mister Holmes told us you were kidnapped, but he didn't tell us why and if it was related to your break-in. And in respect for a collegue, we won't ask. Pupshaw is being charged with his past felonies as part of Welles's organization and the assault and kidnapping of a police officer." Lestrade blinked and finally looked at him in confusion. "We all have our secrets." Dimmock shrugged back casually.

"And what secrets do you have?" Lestrade asked with a wry grin.

"I keep my dirtiest Playboy magazines in a shoebox under my bed." Dimmock deadpanned.

Their quiet chuckles tumbled off into a bout of silence.

"Your desk is clean." Dimmock arched his eyebrow. "You're not even on duty and you did all your paperwork." Lestrade shrugged. "We need to find something unstressful for you to do-... at home! Where I won't have to worry about you keeling over and dying, or something."

Lestrade snorted in amusement and let Dimmock lead him outside the building.

"Seriously, what were you thinking? Doing your paperwork with a concussion-... hold on, I hope you don't make a fool of yourself for that! Serves you right if you did!" Outside in the parking lot, the two officers ran into John who was just coming in.

"Oh, Greg! There you are!" John sighed in relief. "I stopped by your flat and didn't find anybody there."

"Sorry, I got a bit antsy. Did you need something?" Lestrade asked him.

"I was just going to check up on you. I sincerely hope you didn't do anything you would regret later on..."

"Nope. He did all his paperwork like a good little boy and then went down for a few rounds in the shooting range." Dimmock rolled his eyes sarcastically.

"You're not serious!" John exclaimed, horrified. "Who the bloody Hell gave you a gun?" he asked Lestrade rhetorically.

Lestrade just shrugged. John quirked his eyebrow and looked to Dimmock for explanation. "Yeah, this happens sometimes when he gets depressed." Dimmock shrugged. "He's not all very chatty. Hasn't said anything to me except to protest against the extent of his injuries."

"It's. Not. That. Bad!" Lestrade enunciated as if to prove Dimmock's statement.

"Okay mate, lets get you home." John laughed at his friend.

"Think you'll manage? I'm not off duty for a while still." Dimmock shrugged helplessly.

"Sure, go on." John waved him off as he nudged Lestrade into a cab. At least the man wasn't concussed enough to consider driving here.

Small mercies. If it was Sherlock who had a concussion, he might've tried to drive-... a tank. Or something worse and extravagant.

* * *

"So, what do you normally do when you have free time?" John asked when they entered Lestrade's flat a few minutes later.

"I don't." Lestrade shrugged.

"You don't what?" John asked, eyebrows raised as he moved to the kitchen to make tea.

Lestrade threw himself on his sitting room sofa. "I don't have free time. I have absolutely no idea what to do with it now that I do."

"You don't have free time? I live with Sherlock and even I have free time, at least an hour and a half everyday!" John persisted.

"You're not friends with _both_ Holmeses." Lestrade intoned grimly.

"Fair point. So, what does Mycroft do to take up your time?" John asked, sitting on an armchair near Lestrade's sofa.

"He texts... alot. And tricks me into doing more paperwork." Lestrade sighed.

John's eyebrows jumped up his forehead. "Explain. _Now._"

"Well, we text each other alot about random things. And as for the paperwork, it's all stuff Sherlock-related. 'He broke into someone's flat and got caught', 'He broke into a research base', 'He rode the Tube with a harpoon'..." Lestrade listed off the top of his head. "And when I'm not doing police work or work for Mycroft, I'm checking in on Sherlock. I do so less now that I know you're around to stop him if he's inavertly trying to kill himself." His eyes softened. "And before that, I had Eva."

John looked away, slightly embarrassed for having asked.

"I don't know what's wrong with me!" Lestrade continued with another sigh. "It's like, I feel the need to do something. But when there's nothing to do... I don't feel like I want to do anything."

"Yeah, you sound... depressed." John trailed off. "Perfectly understandable, that. Hell, I'm the least involved and _I_ feel depressed."

Lestrade laughed at his friend. "Thanks, mate."

"No problem."

"Say, don't you have work today?" Lestrade asked suddenly.

"Nope, I got sick." John responded cheerfully. Lestrade raised an eyebrow reprimandingly and John shrugged back, then they both dissolved into fits of laughter.

"It's a wonder that you ever get any work done at the clinic!" Lestrade marveled.

"My sentiments exactly. Too bad Sherlock doesn't feel the same." John sighed wryly. They sat in comfortable silence for a while before John broke it. "Sorry, Greg, do you mind if I jump back to talking about Mycroft?"

Lestrade shrugged. "Go ahead."

"What do you two text about? That question's killing me."

"Hold on..." Lestrade pulled out his phone from his pocket and scrolled through his text history. "Um... Sherlock, Sherlock, you, - oh - dead cabbie there, national security breach, horror stories of femme fatales, Baskerville, coffee vs tea, Sherlock, upcoming Olympics, Anthea, movies, Sherlock, obligatory 1984 banter, -... and Mycroft's gay."

John choked up tea.

"In other news, congratulations on your new love interest." Lestrade continued like he hadn't just outed his friend and saw John snorting up his beverage in response.

John blinked in confusion. "Sorry, what? My brain must still be stuck on 'Mycroft's gay'. Did you _have_ to say it so casually?"

Lestrade shrugged. "I thought it was common knowledge."

John stared. "As far as I know him, Mycroft Holmes has the sexual urges of a rock."

"Well I don't know, John, some stone sculptures you'll find are quite erotic..." John narrowed his eyes at Lestrade and the concussed man backtracked. "... Let's just say that you learn something new everyday."

"Everyday since I met Sherlock, at least." John put his tea down on the coffee table. "And what's this about me getting a new love interest? Because I'm pretty sure I don't have one."

Lestrade looked from John's honestly confused face, to his phone, and back. Denial. Right. "Oh... well if you don't know then, nevermind."

"No, Greg, seriously. What's Mycroft saying about me behind my back?" John persisted curiously.

Lestrade looked to actually be debating whether to tell him or not. "Well, he only said that 'If one of the smartest men in the world thinks you're crushing on him, then, he's probably right.' His words, not mine."

John furrowed his brow. "What-..."

"I'll give you a hint, John. I'm not crushing on Mycroft." Lestrade stated bluntly.

A strange, almost pained look came into John's eye. "No-... you're not." He shrugged to himself. "Sherlock also says that you're as thick as a boulder."

Lestrade chuckled humorlessly. "He always does." They fell into silence again, a little more uncomfortable, now. Then, Lestrade let out an explosive sigh, breaking it. "Alright, I admit it, my cast itches like the Devil, my head and face hurt, and something in my back pulls every time I twist my body." he groaned.

John laughed at him, as he made shooing motions. "Go to bed, Lestrade. And stay there!"

When John entered Lestrade's bedroom with a glass of water and a few painkillers, he found Lestrade sitting in bed, leaning against the headboard, and a white slip of paper on his bent knees.

"What's that?" the doctor asked him curiously as he put the water and painkillers down on the nightstand.

Lestrade recoiled and shielded the paper with his body. "No, no, no! You can't look at it!" he mock-wailed with a grin.

"Well then, tell me what it is!" John told him, pretending to try and snatch the paper from his hands.

"It's just something Dimmock always made me do. After a bad case, if I'm depressed or moody, I have to write a list of stuff that cheers me up." Lestrade explained embarrassedly.

"Oh..." A mischevious glint sprang into John's eye. "Can I see it?"

"What? God, no!" Lestrade laughed, then sqwawked in indignation when John lunged and managed to slip the page out from between his fingers. "John! Give that back!"

John turned away from Lestrade's grabbing hands and skimmed over Lestrade's list. He stopped short.

* * *

**Things that never fail to cheer Gregory Lestrade up**

Sherlock smiling, not smirking.

Mycroft asking for help with Sherlock personally, not texting it or phoning.

Collegues being decent to Sherlock and John.

Collegues making breakthroughs on cases that would've otherwise needed Sherlock's help.

Going home to Dorset at Christmas.

Mycroft text-whining about tedious classified work. And trying to be vague. And failing.

Anthea text-whining about Mycroft. (However rare it may be.)

Thunderstorms.

Seeing Sherlock be nice to Molly.

Having tea with Mrs. Hudson.

Seeing Mycroft, Sherlock, John, and the police working together.

When I know something before Sherlock or Mycroft does.

The glorious split-second when Anthea actually has expressions.

Mycroft texting every five minutes so that I don't fall asleep and spill coffee all over my desk.

The look on Mycroft's face when you ask if you can use his umbrella.

The look on Sherlock's face when he realizes what you've just asked his brother.

Mycroft sharing a bit of his umbrella as long as you don't ask to hold/keep it.

Going to visit Sandy and Jonah with Mycroft.

Mycroft smiling and actually meaning to do it. (Menancing, sarcastic, political, tense, and condenscending, not valid.)

Realizing that Mycroft does extensive research to understand people's references. (Hogwarts, disturbances in the Force, M from James Bond (stands for Mycroft. haha) ect.)

Hearing Mycroft laugh. (Not snort, chuckle, or huff amusedly. _Laugh_.)

When Mycroft asks me to handle Sherlock like he doesn't trust anybody else to do it right.

* * *

Lestrade snatched the paper back from John. "And," he added, "the days where John Watson actually listens to me." He growled jokingly.

"Only when you listen to your doctor." John shot back.

"Oh, that'll be the day." Lestrade shoved his list unceremoniously under his pillow and took his painkillers.

Five minutes later, John locked up after himself and walked down the street to go find a cab to get back to Baker Street. He looked thoughtful of Lestrade's list... or more, the last several situations on his list.

_Mycroft, Mycroft, Mycorft..._

Sherlock was right. Lestrade was thick as a boulder.

John let out a small laugh as he realized; Mycroft always cheers Lestrade up.

But, it wasn't like John had so much experience of depression since moving into Baker Street. When being with Sherlock nearly 24/7, you have no time to be depressed. In between having heart attacks from finding body parts inside the fridge, when Sherlock shoots the walls (Bullets arn't exactly cheap), running after the insane consulting detective, being totally and utterly infuriated by said consulting detective with his cool coat tricks and the cheekbones-...

And... what was that Lestrade was talking about his love interest?

He shrugged it off.


	44. Safe

Safe

Lestrade did not know whether to call his sofa 'new' or 'old'.

The sofa he had previously owned was old, he'd had it for about six years or more. It had been completely destroyed when Pupshaw's men had ransacked his flat. And then Mycroft had replaced the sofa with an exact replica. It had the same tan colour, faded, tinged sometimes with grey, and a deliberately placed scratch mark forged to replicate an injury from when Lestrade had had an accident with his old sofa.

Lestrade knew that Mycroft made this new sofa look exactly like his old sofa so that he would have some semblance of 'familiarity'. Lestrade was grateful, don't misunderstand. But now he had a conundrum. His new sofa looked old.

So, should he call it 'new' or 'old' or a 'new-old' sofa? Hm, choices, choices...

It was a trivial matter that really did not need to be contemplated, but Lestrade knew he was thinking about that simply to distract himself from his phone that way laying innocuously on his coffee table.

Speaking of phones, Alex had caused it to ring just a few hours ago, he was back in London, safe and sound. Lestrade wasn't quite ready to talk about his case but they had planned for dinner, a few beers, and maybe Lestrade would stay the night at his place if he was up to it.

And... that was another distraction... Where was he? Oh, yes, phones.

It was the worst part of a difficult case. The dreaded moment when he had to pick up his phone, call his Mum, and tell her 'Hey Mum, I just got out of the hospital, someone just tried to kidnap and kill me. I thought you should know I got injured... How are you, by the way? I hear the weather's lovely this time of year.'

Lestrade had lost contact with his family after he had run away, repaired ties when his sister got married, ...and then he got injured and his family had to find out from the next morning's front page. His mum didn't like that.

Since that time, she had made him promise to tell the family that he had been hurt every time he needed a trip to the hospital. The first time, he had a minor stab wound and Maisie had taken a trip down to look after him, the second, his mum had declared that she would do the same and Lestrade had nearly begged her to reconsider.

While she was a good mother, a good nurse she was not.

He sighed and put all throughts of old and new sofas out of his mind as he picked up his phone and scrolled through his contact numbers. He swallowed thickly and dialed.

_"Oh, for God's sakes, Pete! I'm busy being mad at you, quit calling!"_ Maisie's voice snapped.

Silence.

Lestrade cleared his throat. "Do I have to kill somebody, Maisie?" he grinned slowly, his sister was using that hot-headed I'm-mad-at-you-but-I-probably-don't-mean-anything-I'm-saying voice.

Silence.

_"Oh God, Greg?"_ Maisie gasped.

"Let me guess, you were expecting someone else?" Lestrade chuckled wryly.

_"Sorry, Pete and I had this blasted fight last night and he's been calling all day to apologize."_ Maisie sighed in exasperation.

"Isn't that a good thing?" Lestrade asked her in confusion.

_"Not when I'm enjoying being mad at him for a change."_

Lestrade snorted. "You're a strange one, how did you ever get hitched before I did?"

_"Easy. I'm prettier."_

"And I won't deny that." Lestrade laughed affectionately. "Alright, oh Pretty One. Give the phone to Mum, will you?"

There was a stratchy sound of the phone changing hands. _"Gregory?"_

"Hey, Mum."

_"How bad is it?"_ Beatrice Lestrade asked her son before he could even explain why he was calling.

"How do you know it's bad news?" Lestrade asked out of curiosity.

_"The only reason you'd call is to plan when you're coming over, if you had gotten hurt, or if you were getting married again... I personally don't think it's the latter, but you were always a bit of a wild card, wern't you?"_ At Lestrade's groan. _"Relax, Gregory, a mother simply knows."_

"Women's intuition?" Lestrade asked dubiously.

_"You were kidnapped."_ The statement came clear out of the blue and floored Lestrade.

"Oookay... Mum, you're starting to scare me."

_"A Mycroft Holmes informed me so."_ Beatrice told him breezily.

"Oh God, he didn't!" Lestrade groaned, dropping his face into his palm. "Please tell me you're joking."

_"He did."_ his mother replied coolly. _"He only wished us to know you were safe. You hardly tell us anything about your work, we worry."_

"Let me guess-... constantly?" Lestrade ventured tentatively.

_"In the gentleman's own words."_ Beatrice confirmed. _"He seems a pleasant enough man, I'd like to meet him."_

"I don't know Mum, he's the kind of guy you'd tell me and Maisie to stay clear of, if you met him in the street." Lestrade told her. "... On second thought, I don't think he does first meetings in streets."

There was a brief silence on the other end. _"Is he a dangerous man?"_

Lestrade bit his lip. "Well, he's no herbivore." he answered honestly.

_"But is he a danger to you?"_ his mother persisted more firmly.

Lestrade shook his head. "No. He's my friend."

_"Then bring your friend over sometime, he would be most welcome."_ Beatrice's voice was no longer tense and cold, she sounded almost relieved. _"We don't know enough about how you're living in London."_

Lestrade felt a pang of guilt. He really didn't contact home much. "Okay, Mum."

_"I just want to make sure you have friends that will look after you. It's a dangerous place."_ Beatrice explained.

"I know how dangerous London is, Mum. I'm a cop. And I'm careful. You don't have anything to worry about." He assured her, rolling his eyes. "I'll bring Mycroft along sometime... and Sherlock, John, Dimmock, Donovan, Mrs. Hudson, Hell, even Molly if it makes you feel better."

_"Do."_ There was a warm smile in Beatrice's voice.

"Just... um, be prepared for an all out World War III when the time comes." Lestrade grimaced.

_"I had a feeling."_ his mother sighed in resignation.

"A mother knows?" Lestrade smiled apologetically.

_"Wise words."_


	45. Silent

Silent

It was quiet in Lestrade's flat. All was still and not even the whisper of a glowing bunny sounded. Lestrade sighed, rolling over onto his side on his new-old sofa. He growled, a sound low in his throat, and stabbed repeatedly at his TV remote controller to change channels.

Nothing. It can't be. The world must be ending... starting with the destruction of decent reporters. Any other day and Lestrade would be laughing with glee and dancing on their graves.

He tossed the controller to the other end of the couch near his feet and contemplated the idea of calling John or Sherlock. He turned both down. John was on one of his rare days at work and Sherlock probably wouldn't humor him if he didn't have a case. Same reason Lestrade didn't call Donovan or Dimmock, they must be busy with something anyway.

He sighed again and rolled up off the couch, mindful of his wrist. It was healing nicely, but it wasn't healed fully yet. Unfortunately, Anthea _was_ healed and Lestrade had to suffer alone.

He wandered into his kitchen and stared blankly at the inside of his fridge without the urge to eat anything. He just liked looking around inside his fridge, he knew alot of people who had the same odd tendancy.

He looked at the clock that was situated on the top of his fridge. It was still a few more hours to lunch. He finally closed the fridge door and turned around. He stood for a moment quietly, listening.

Nothing.

Like the whole world was standing still. No Sherlock firing off his deductions, no Donovan shouting on his heels, no John trying to pacify them...

Nothing. Goddammit.

Then his phone rang. Lestrade dashed out of his kitchen and leapt over the back of his couch eagerly to get to the phone that was vibrating on his coffee table. He only spared a split-second glance at the caller ID before accepting the call.

"Mycroft, I could kiss you right now." Lestrade sighed in relief.

_"At this very moment, Gregory? I am quite certain that that must be physically impossible."_ Mycroft lobbed back easily.

"Well, you get what I mean." Lestrade shrugged.

_"Of course."_ Mycroft chuckled. _"If you are free, I was hoping you might accompany me for lunch."_

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "'If I'm free'? Just a moment, Mycroft, let me check my schedule for the day." he drawled sarcastically, pausing theatrically. "Well, I guess I _might_ be able to squeeze you in between 'sitting on the couch doing nothing' and 'dying of boredom'."

Mycroft laughed. _"I will send a car around, then."_

* * *

The Diogenes Club was one of the most peculiar places Lestrade had ever been to. It was silent, calm, and utterly boring. The air was heavy and oppressive and Lestrade felt mildly claustrophobic. It was one thing to have companionable silence but being ignored and not being able to complain about it was a different matter.

He slouched in his stuffed armchair and resisted the urge to kick and shout as loudly as he could like a spoiled child having a tantrum. Seriously, the silence was deafening. Forget hearing a pin drop; if an ant farted, they'd know. He was beginning to hear that faint ringing in his ears, tinnitus, was it called? See, he listened to Sherlock sometimes, too!

He crossed his arms, uncrossed them, crossed his legs, ankle over knee, and uncrossed them. He bit back a bored sigh and rolled his eyes Heavenward with a long-suffering look instead.

What the Hell was taking Mycroft so long?

He had initially dropped in to accompany Mycroft to lunch but the government agent had been detained by a bit of last minute business and had left Lestrade in the parlor to wait until he finished.

That was a whole fifteen minutes ago. In silence. With ancient old men staring at the him suspiciously over their equally ancient spectacles. He guessed that they didn't get visitors very often.

He let out a sigh and every eye that hadn't been on him, now was. They glared at him reproachingly.

"Oh, don't mind me." Lestrade smiled nervously before wincing and resisting the urge to pacepalm. Silence, right.

He picked up a newspaper from a coffee table and began flipping through it rapidly, eyes skimming over the words but seeing nothing interesting.

Then he had an idea. But no... it was immature and stupid. ...So he decided to do it.

He slouched lower in his seat, if possible, and raised his eyes an inch over the top of his paper. He squinted his eyes a little and leveled a man sitting near him with a piercing gaze.

For a moment, the man did not notice. Then, he glanced up curiously at Lestrade, found the man staring back at him, and quickly averted his gaze guiltily as if embarrassed at being caught spying on the new guy... by the new guy.

Lestrade ignored the man's fluster and continued staring like the man was an intreguing species of bug under a glass.

They sat in perfect silence for a few minutes before the man began twitching his fingers a little under Lestrade's immovable gaze and loosened his collar, coughing nervously.

_Yes!_ Lestrade mentally punched the air when everybody turned as one to glare at the man. Shame on him! He was a regular patron, he should know better than to disturb the sacred silence!

The man's eyes widened like a deer in headlights under the glare of his hermit-fellows when he realized what Lestrade had done and looked at the copper but Lestrade was already engrossed in a very intreguing article in the paper he was reading. A perfect picture of innocence.

Lestrade pressed his lips into a hard line and shoved down the laughter that was threatening to bubble up through his throat. He just hoped he wasn't smiling.

He felt a light touch on his shoulder and nearly leapt up.

He barely remembered not to speak and gestured toward the door, eyebrows raised in question. Mycroft smiled and nodded back. They had only just gotten out of the building and closed the soundproof doors behind them before Lestrade burst out into laughter.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at the laughing man. "Oh, come on! You had to think that was a little bit funny." The copper gaped incredulously at the government agent's unimpressed look.

Mycroft shook his head and allowed a small smile. Lestrade considered that a victory, thank you very much.

* * *

"So, what kept you?" Lestrade asked over a plate of pasta and tossed salad.

"I'm afraid I cannot answer that." Mycroft sighed, rubbing his temple ruefully. "It is classified information, after all."

"Ah, I see." Lestrade twirled his fork around to pick up a bite-sized ball of noodles.

"And how is your recovery coming along?" Mycroft asked politely. He probably had Lestrade's medical file on hand, but it was decent enough of him to ask.

"Okay." Lestrade replied vaguely.

He could almost see his medical file popping up somewhere behind Mycroft's eyeballs. _Was it the tricky wrist? Maybe there are complications regarding his concussion? Dr. Watson assured me there was no internal bleeding from..._

"Hey, Mycroft, relax." Lestrade chuckled at his friend.

"Ah, I do apologize." Mycroft coughed abashedly.

"No need." Lestrade shrugged. He didn't really want to talk about his injuries. It was practically all he talked about with John, Sherlock, Dimmock, Donovan, Anthea, Mycroft, and the other doctors Mycroft assigned, he really had quite enough of it.

So they sat in comfortable silence and ate in peace. It was a nice change, really, being in someone's presence without feeling the obligation to talk.

Lestrade glanced up from his place and met Mycroft's gaze with a slight grin.

Then they laughed.

"Quite right." Mycroft hummed with a smile.

See? No talking and they understood each other perfectly. Lestrade felt the urge to say 'Beat that, Diogenes Club!' but he didn't.

The silence, after all, was sacred.

* * *

Mycroft's phone rang with a text the moment he dropped Lestrade off at his flat. The government agent waved at the copper before slinking back into his car. He pulled his phone out.

_Moriarty not speaking. Silent as a mouse. -Anthea_

Mycroft pressed his eyes shut and sighed. _Get him to talk. By any means necessary. -MH_


	46. Realizing

Realizing

Lestrade took a deep breath and let it go with a pleased smile.

"Yep, nothing like the stench of the dead to make your day." Donovan quipped to her superior. "Are you just that glad to be back on-scene, Sir? Or should I recommend a therapist?"

Lestrade grinned. "Witnesses, Donovan. I think they're in severe need of interrogation." He was beginning to doubt that anything could dampen his day.

Donovan rolled her eyes with an exasperated smile and left. Just as she did so, a cab pulled up and the Baker Street Duo clambered out.

"Lestrade! It's about time!" Sherlock sighed with relief. "Nobody else would call me in, in your absence, despite their desperate need for help." he groused.

"Don't mind him." John shrugged, coming up behind. "He's just happy to finally have something to do."

"Well, that makes two of us." Lestrade admitted sheepishly as he pulled on the obligatory crime scene coveralls.

And as if on cue... "Oi! What's he doing here?" Anderson stomped up. "I knew your short absence was too good to last!" he spat. Literally. Lestrade and John recoiled a little in carefully hidden disgust.

"Anderson, get out of the way." Sherlock sighed in a long-suffering way. "You're not doing any good here. Because, let's face it, you couldn't find your own arse to save your life, much less evidence to help a case." He paused in his rant as if in afterthought. "Dumbass."

Then he turned, coattails flying, and marched into the crime scene before Anderson could stop spluttering.

"Is it possible to miss someone so much?" Lestrade asked, deadpanned.

John just scoffed with a knowing grin.

* * *

Suspicions aroused. Evidence gathered. Witness statements procured. Case closed. Too bad it would never go on record. Lestrade stood over the forgotton victim's body, a silly grin plastered on his face.

John was beginning to become worried about him. "Are you feeling alright, mate?" he asked him quietly so as not to disturb Sherlock's deductions.

Lestrade took John by his elbow and steered him away from Sherlock and the dead body. "Spill. When did it happen?" he demanded.

John looked politely confused. "Sorry, what?"

"Oh, come on! Sherlock's showing off more than usual, you're not meeting his gaze, mostly because you're staring at his arse, and he's being polite in not calling you out on it." Lestrade listed off the top of his head. "Do you want me to continue?"

John opened his mouth, closed it, flushed like a tomato, and dropped his face in his hands. "Was it that obvious?" he asked in defeat.

"Sorry, mate."

"I swear, I'm not doing it on purpose." John stammered. Lestrade just nodded, eyebrows raised, and fought back a grin. When it became obvious that Lestrade wasn't going to go anywhere without answers, John sighed. "Three days ago."

"Oh?" Lestrade heard footsteps approach and schooled his expression into one of grim consentration as he watched Sherlock out of the corner of his eye.

They waited for the bypassing officer to move out of earshot.

"At first, it started as little things over the course of a month or something, you know? Absently warning me about 'surprises' in the fridge before I opened it, started stashing the more dangerous experiments in his own room where I wouldn't accidentally trip over them, and stuff." John lowered his voice conspiratorily. "He put _labels_ on his chemicals the other day." he whispered, slightly awed. "_Labels._"

Lestrade thought it was all very endearing.

"And then three days ago, Mrs. Hudson happened to let slip how she was impressed that Sherlock bothered to make the effort for me... and, well, I was pleased to hear it. Actually pleased." John shrugged casually, trying to pretend he wasn't blushing like a girl. "It got me thinking, really thinking. And then it just clicked in my brain... Greg, I swear, the IEDs I've run into in Afghanistan did less damage. I just stood there gaping like a dumb fish with mental problems."

Lestrade grinned at the image. "So you told him?"

John pressed his lips together and frantically shook his head. "No... not yet."

Lestrade nodded to him and patted his shoulder comfortingly. "Well, hang in there, Doctor."

"Lestrade! Where the bloody Hell are you! I hope I wasn't just talking to an empty room for the last five minutes! What's the point of calling me in if you're not going to hang around to hear my deductions?" Sherlock bellowed petulently from the other room.

Lestrade and John exchanged glances and giggled guiltily.

"Hold on, Sherlock! We'll be right there!"

* * *

Lestrade saw them off to their cab when the case was done and over with. It didn't take Sherlock long to find their killer at all, not even a full day. But, in the short time while the case was still ongoing, Lestrade knew something had changed.

John and Sherlock were no longer avoiding each other's gazes, in fact, they couldn't seem to tear themselves away. They huddled a little closer than was the social norm in the rain for warmth and neither seemed to mind the equal invasion of their personal space until their cab came to pick them up.

They both scooted into the back of the cab, knees touching, both looking bashfully out of their respective windows. Then John said something and Sherlock looked at him, smiled, said something in return and John laughed brightly.

And then they were gone.

"Oh, bloody Hell! Those Holmeses!" Donovan groaned.

"What about it?" Lestrade asked irrately. "We've been having our share of fun in teasing them about it before it happened. A bit late in voicing your disapproval."

Donovan shook her head. "That's not exactly what I meant." Lestrade raised his eyebrows in silent question. "Why do they always get the decent men?" She sent a quick glance at her superior officer and saw his confusion. "It's nothing, don't mind me." And she walked off.

"Whatever..." Lestrade grumbled to her retreating figure and sidled to the crime scene perimeter.

"Detective Inspector?" He whirled around to see Mycroft standing just outside the perimeter under his trusty umbrella. He inclined his head in a way that Lestrade had come to automatically translate as 'If you will please accompany me, I would like to speak with you'.

Lestrade glanced back to make sure his officers had the crime scene under control before jogging over to Mycroft and ducking under the crime scene tape. Mycroft shifted his umbrella to cover them both without prompting and Lestrade fell into step easily, already familiar with Mycroft's speed and length in step, matching him stride for stride.

"Lovely weather, isn't it?" Mycroft remarked mildly.

Mycroft hated rain, it drenched his shoes and slacks, he thought it was all very tedious. Lestrade grinned. "Sure."

"I hear the rain will continue all through tomorrow as well." Mycroft sighed.

"Damn those eco-terrorists." Lestrade smirked back.

"Quite right." Mycroft smiled back thinly. "Anthea won't even accompany me out of the office, the rain does extensive damage to her hair, apparently."

"You know one of the most important rules of survival; never mess with a woman's hair." Lestrade grimaced.

"Hell hath no fury." Mycroft agreed sagely.

Lestrade laughed and nudged Mycroft's side lightly with his elbow. "Careful, she might get you back for that." Mycroft just huffed back and shook his head.

Tick... tick... tick ...ding! Oh, how Lestrade hated belated realizations.

He had just elbowed Mycroft. Lestrade was, by nature, a very physical person, he liked patting people's shoulders, slapping backs, shaking hands, anything really. But Mycroft was the complete opposite and abhorred the thought of coming into physical contact with another human being.

He hadn't even flinched or frowned when Lestrade elbowed him.

Lestrade suddenly froze and stopped walking altogether in his shock. Not realizing, Mycroft continued walking a few steps when he began saying something and realized that Lestrade was no longer with him. He stopped and turned to see Lestrade standing stock still in the rain, mouth gaping at him.

"Gregory?"

When he thought about it, Lestrade began to wonder if he was the last to suspect something happening between him and Mycroft.

_"Oh, bloody Hell! Those Holmeses! Why do they always get the decent men?"_ Donovan's voice asked in exasperation. _Holmeses._ Plural.

There were so many little things about Mycroft that Lestrade had grown to take for granted. The way they joked comfortably, went out for coffee or lunch, texted simply to communicate, it had been a while since Mycroft had kidnapped him for a talk. It never occured to Lestrade that Mycroft's behavior toward him was exclusive.

_"Mrs. Hudson was impressed that Sherlock bothered to make the effort for me... and, well, I was pleased to hear it. Actually pleased."_ John smiled.

Lestrade took a moment to think back on everything he knew about Mycroft that most people didn't. They way he liked his tea, that he didn't like the rain despite always appearing with it, his wry humor, his surprised laughter, his endearing smile...

_"Sherlock also says that you're as thick as a boulder."_ John had told him.

"Gregory?" Mycroft called again, snapping him out of his shell-shocked reverie. He sounded slightly concerned. Was he ever really concerned about anybody other than Sherlock?

The answer was; yes. Yes, he was.

The rain fell on Lestrade in cold sheets and he was now painfully aware of how small a space he and Mycroft had been sharing under his umbrella. He hadn't thought twice about it before. He hadn't felt like he had to measure the short distance between them. And bloody Hell was it short!

Realizing that he liked Mycroft Holmes, and that said Mycroft Holmes may or may not reciprocate the sentiment, did not strike Lestrade like the explosion of an IED like John had described it. It was a simple 'oh'. A statement of fact. The realization of an absurdly simple truth.

"Holy. Shit."

How many times had they unwittingly flirted in their conversations? Lestrade lost count.

Well. Now he feels stupid.

Mycroft just furrowed his brow at Lestrade. "Shall I call for a doctor, Gregory?" he half-joked.

That snapped Lestrade to the present. "John." he blurted. "I need to talk to John."

He really didn't know who else to go to.


	47. Intruding

Intruding

The drive from the crime scene to Baker Street took fifteen minutes but it was still too little time for Lestrade to figure out what he was going to tell John. He pulled up on the curb and sucked in a calming breath, gripping and releasing the steering wheel a few times before finally climbing out and scurrying through the rain into 221 Baker Street.

He marched up the stairs to the second floor before he could come to his senses and talk himself out of it or get cold feet.

He had a serious problem. He just realized that he liked Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock's brother. _Sherlock's._ Just-... no. Lestrade didn't even want to think about it. It was enough to give him a headache.

He threw the flat door open and walked in unnanounced like he was accustomed to. He found Sherlock sitting curled up in his stuffed armchair by the fireplace halfway through a rant and John was shutting him up. It could've been described as perfectly routine if John was rolling his eyes and snapping irrately at Sherlock to shut up...

...But it so happened that he was _physically_ stopping Sherlock's mouth from moving... with his lips.

"Oh, _Jesus_!" Lestrade wheeled around and marched straight back out, all resolution to talk about his situation with Mycroft flown coop. "Sorry! Didn't think I'd be intruding on something here!" he shouted back in apology as he haphazardly slammed the door behind him and marched straight back down the stairs the way he came, not willing to give himself much time to think about what he'd just interrupted.

"What's all the ruckus?" Mrs. Hudson wondered aloud, emmerging from her own flat. "Oh, Detective Inspector! Leaving so soon?"

"Yes-... no! I mean, I'll be back some other time. Sherlock and John seem to be busy... with other things." Lestrade trailed off lamely.

"I see." Mrs. Hudson smiled knowingly. "Would you like some tea?"

_Consolation for my traumatized brain?_ Lestrade wondered to himself. "I really wouldn't want to intrude." he smiled politely anyway.

"Oh, you should know better than to think it's any trouble." Mrs. Hudson tutted. And just then, the sky lit up and was followed by a thundering rumble. The rain that had been pattering down on the earth idly when Lestrade had arrived now mutated into icy sheets of water.

Lestrade looked to the gloomy weather outside and back to Mrs. Hudson. His shoulders sagged in defeat. "On second thought, tea sounds lovely."

"Tea makes everything better." Mrs. Hudson smiled conspiratorily as if cluing him on the secret to the Universe.

Lestrade smiled back. "I'll take your word on it."

* * *

It was odd to see the exact same layout of Sherlock and John's flat made into a different setting. It was neater, homey, and not at all lacking in a woman's touch.

Everything from the freshly cut flowers on the table to the pictures hung on the wall contrasted to the chaos and utter bachelorness of Sherlock and John's flat.

Mrs. Hudson brewed them both tea as Lestrade studied his new surroundings. He caught sight of a polished wooden picture frame on the mantlepiece, inside the frame sat a photograph of a younger Mrs. Hudson and a well-built, strong-faced man.

"That's me and my late husband." Mrs. Hudson told him, putting her teapot down and folding her hands in her lap. "Before he died. Before I met Sherlock."

"I'm sorry." Lestrade murmured softly, realizing he actually meant it.

Mrs. Hudson shook her head with a brave smile. "Oh, don't be! He got what was coming to him!" she declared vehemently. Then she wilted a little and seemed to fold in on herself. "No. I don't really mean that." she said miserably.

Lestrade glanced at the picture again. "You look happy."

"Oh, I was." Mrs. Hudson smiled sadly. "He was so wonderful. Before he changed." She brought a hand up to cover her mouth as a shaky breath sifted through her fingers. "I'm sorry. You must think I'm a fool, defending a killer like him." she blustered. Lestrade was at her side in two quick strides with a handkerchief. "Oh, thank you, dear. How thoughtful." Mrs. Hudson accepted the small offering with grace.

Lestrade took his seat beside her and rubbed her shoulder soothingly. "It's alright to miss him, Mrs. Hudson." he told her sincerely. "Criminal, or no, he was still someone you cared about."

Mrs. Hudson looked at him gratefully. "You're too kind, Detective Inspector."

Lestrade finished pouring their tea and nudged Mrs. Hudson's cup toward her. "He sounds like quite a man. Would you tell me about him?"

Mrs. Hudson smiled reminiscently with a faraway look. Then she did.

* * *

"Now it's your turn." Mrs. Hudson said to Lestrade after she spent roughly an hour and a half talking about her late husband's memory.

"Hm?" Lestrade looked caught off-guard.

"What did you really come to talk to Sherlock about, Detective Inspector?" Mrs. Hudson asked curiously. "I'm no Sherlock, but you usually either pop in and tell Sherlock where to go for a case, or you outline a case for him and let him decide whether it's worth his time or not." She raised an appraising eyebrow. "You don't look like you have a case at all."

Lestrade shook his head. "Nothing gets by you, does it, Mrs. Hudson?" The landlady smiled appreciatively. "I didn't actually come for a case, didn't quite come to see Sherlock, either. To tell you the truth." he admitted.

"Oh? You had business with John?" Mrs. Hudson smiled pleasantly. Lestrade glanced at his watch and looked at Mrs. Hudson's hopeful face hesitantly. "Oh, come now, it's the least I could do. Seeing as you've sat and listened to me rattle on about my own problems."

Lestrade shrugged to himself and decided that Mrs. Hudson was the next best person he could trust in his unique situation and ask for advice.

So he told her about Mycroft.

* * *

"And... now you see my predicament." Lestrade sighed when he finished his story.

Mrs. Hudson looked positively gleeful. "Well congratulations, Detective Inspector! I must say, Mycroft is quite a dashing young man, isn't he?" she practically gushed.

"I'm still wondering if it's a good thing or not. I mean, it's Mycroft!" Lestrade sighed, running his fingers through his hair.

"Well, perhaps he's not such an Iceman as people might think." Mrs. Hudson shrugged.

"'Caring is not an advantage.'" Lestrade sighed ruefully.

"Caring," Mrs. Hudson remarked sagely. "is alot more than just that, Detective Inspector. And it's not always a disadvatage."

"_I_ know that. But will he think the same?" Lestrade wondered to himself. "That's the big question."

"I doubt anybody could think differently, when in love." Mrs. Hudson hummed. "Nobody could be so cold."

"Not even Mycroft, despite what he may think." Sherlock chimed in suddenly from the doorway.

Lestrade jerked out of his seat, having been sitting with his back facing Sherlock. He whirled around. "Christ! Warn a bloke, why don't you?" he complained, flushing slightly. "How long have you been there?"

Sherlock shrugged dismissively. "Since around your narration of Mycroft kidnapping police officers for interrogation and being mistaken for alien abductions."

"So that's-..."

"Nearly the whole time, yeah." John piped in cheerfully from Sherlock's side.

Lestrade stared at them, more at Sherlock apprehensively. "Shit."

"Oh, don't be so wary." Sherlock shot back breezily. "My brother's pathetic love life is none of my business. I have no intention of intruding."

"No intruding? Promise?" Sherlock nodded. "Thank God." Lestrade said seriously.

Sherlock scowled back. "Now you're just being rude."

"He's being perfectly cautious, Sherlock." John chimed in with a cheeky grin.

Sherlock glared but said nothing, his jaw was clenching like he was chewing on gravel. Probably biting back a cruel retort. Then he rolled his eyes and let it go with a loud exhale. Everybody else in the room grinned.


	48. Mysterious

Mysterious

"So, as I was saying, Greg." Alex smiled broadly as he bought pints for the two of them. "Prague. You should go sometime, it's great."

Lestrade took the offered drink and smiled back, it had been a while since he and Alex got together for drinks. "Got any good pictures?"

Alex winked impishly. "Do you one better."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Well, go on, I'm all ears."

"5'10, golden blonde, all the right angles, and eyes like St. Patrick's wet dream." Alex took a large gulp of his pint. "Mate, I've got good pictures, you have no idea."

Lestrade laughed at him. "And I don't want to know!"

Alex scratched the back of his head sheepishly. "Yeah, sorry." At Lestrade's bemused look. "I decided to stop pining after Joey like a love-sick puppy. At least I'm sure this guy is single."

"'This guy'?" Lestrade questioned, then he saw Alex's embarrassed look. "You don't know his name." Statement, not question.

"We didn't really get to that part." his friend admitted.

Lestrade threw his head back and laughed. "Should've known you'd 'shag first, ask questions later'!"

"So I don't know his name, shut up, I think it's mysterious... it's kinda sexy. Besides, I've got friends asking around for him. He can't hide from me forever!" Alex declared melodramatically. "Speaking of which, what about you? Anybody new?"

Lestrade paused, "Maybe."

"Maybe? Seriously? You're going to make me guess?" Alex groaned. "Alright, what about that Sherlock fellow you talk about alot?"

Lestrade choked into his drink. "Sherlock? No."

"John?"

"Got together with Sherlock." Lestrade replied mildly.

"What about that other one?" Alex's eyes wandered toward the ceiling. "Um... Michael, was it? No, but it was something like that."

Lestrade stared for a moment, then laughed. "Mycroft?"

Alex snapped his fingers twice. "Yes! That guy!"

Lestrade paused mid-sip. "Just a friend." he said.

"I call bullshit." Alex declared. "You took a second too long to answer."

"Just friends." Lestrade insisted, grinning behind his cup to hide the touch of pink on his cheekbones.

The expression was not lost on Alex. "Oh, you've got that look!" he crowed gleefully, pointing. "Look at it! Look!"

"I do not!" Lestrade growled back without malice.

"So, when you talk about that 'posh git in the three piece suit' what are you _really_ thinking?" Alex teased.

"I'm thinking of a posh git in a three piece suit." Lestrade answered, completely serious.

"With the umbrella, and the condescending smirk, and the sibling rivalry." Alex rambled on, thoroughly enjoying his friend's discomfort.

"Wait, did I tell you about the sibling rivalry?" Lestrade asked. "I don't remember."

"Oh, get a drink in you and you'd talk about him more than you'd expect." Alex smirked. "Mate, if you can forgive him for texting you at three o'clock in the morning to get his brother out of police custody, you must have it bad." Lestrade swatted his shoulder and Alex calmed down. "But I get the feeling that you've already come to that conclusion." he remarked perceptively.

Lestrade sighed, blushing a bit. "Yeah. It's a bit hard to miss. John said that Sherlock said I was being thick as a boulder about it, and I'm inclined to agree with them."

"And you're doing nothing about it, ...why?"

"First of all, he's a Holmes." Lestrade sighed.

"So he's got the social graces of a door." Alex shrugged. "Nobody's perfect."

"No, he's charming enough I suppose." Lestrade shook his head. "It's just... I don't know." Alex raised his eyebrows. "Sherlock and Mycroft don't tend to talk about themselves alot. I don't know a thing about him... besides the things I like about him."

Alex grinned. "Well, I think that's adorable."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "There are things I know about him, and then there are things I'm not allowed to know." he tried to explain. "Like his job. Somewhere along the line there's going to be a difference between 'mysterious' and 'classified'." Lestrade sighed.

Alex raised his eyebrows again. "You said he works for the government, right?" Lestrade nodded. "What did you say he does, exactly?"

Lestrade shook his head and shrugged his shoulders helplessly. "See? I don't know."

"Um, you ever been to his house? Workplace? You said you've been to his office a few times before." Alex continued his interrogation.

"I've been to one of his safehouses and one of his offices." At Alex's incredulous look. "Yes, he has more than one."

"Alright, so he doesn't talk about work at all?"

"No, he does sometimes. He just has to censor some words occassionally." Lestrade replied.

"What did he talk about? Economics? Politics? ...Espionage?" Alex grinned.

Lestrade grinned back. "That's classified. I'm pretty sure I'm not allowed to tell you or else I'd be obligated to kill you."

Alex leaned back in his seat. "So, you like him. But you're not doing anything about it because you don't know if you can trust him."

"I can trust him just fine, thanks!" Lestrade shot back slightly complainingly. "It's just... " he trailed off.

Alex propped his head on his hand. "It's just a case of cold feet and procrastination?" he suggested with a grin.

"No!" Lestrade resisted the urge to hit his friend again. "It's..." He grimaced. "I don't know if either of us are ready for it yet."

Alex took a sip of his beer and gestured for him to continue. "Go on."

"Like I said, he's a Holmes, he believes that 'caring is not an advantage'. And, he's been thinking that for so long that it'll take time for him to get used to the change." Lestrade told him. "And I'm not trying to make this his fault. I'm worse off." Alex raised his eyebrows but did not interrupt. "I mean, since meeting the Holmeses alot has happened. Between weird cases, crazy people, nearly getting killed several times, getting a divorce, making new friends, and being kidnapped, it's an emotional rollercoaster over here. I'm constantly pulled in so many different directions, I don't even know which way is up or down anymore. I mean, I keep up with the Holmeses fair enough, but I'm beginning to miss Earth, you know?"

"Sounds like an adventure." Alex smiled, envious.

"It's great, but it's a bit overwhelming sometimes." Lestrade groaned, taking another pull from his pint. "Sometimes I just want to stand on solid ground and relish not being bowled over by constant crazy."

"And hooking up with a Holmes is bound to be full of crazy." Alex deduced.

"I'm _so_ not ready for it. Hundred percent... ninety... definitely around seventy-five percent not ready." Lestrade plopped his head on the table with a resounding 'thunk'.

"Yeah, Holmes sounds like a man of mystery." Alex grinned roguishly, wagging his eyebrows.

"In regards to Holmeses, 'mysterious' equates 'trouble'." Lestrade shot back, raising his head. At Alex's indulgent look. "Yeah," Lestrade sighed, concedingly. "it is kinda sexy."

"Mate, you are so screwed." Alex grinned.

Lestrade dropped his head onto the table again with a noise that could be described as a whimper.

"On another topic, here. Do I get to know?" Alex asked suddenly.

"Know what?" Lestrade propped his head wearily on his hand.

"Well, one day you just call me out of the blue, sounding scared, and ask me to skip town for a bit. Things might get dangerous." Alex raised his eyebrows. "What happened?"

"My flat got broken into." Lestrade shrugged. "And I got kidnapped. Separate occassion."

"And you came back bearing injuries." Alex stated the obvious. "Do I get an explanation?"

Lestrade looked at him, head angled to the side contemplatively. "Um, I don't really want to talk about it right now."

"What would it take for you to tell me?" Alex smirked behind his eyelashes.

"Hm? Are you flirting with me? Where did all that adoration for your mysterious Romeo go, all of a sudden?" Lestrade raised his eyebrow in an attempt to look impassive, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward. Lestrade's phone chimed with a text and Lestrade glanced at it briefly before smiling a little and putting it away again.

_Sherlock in jail again. I apologize for the fact that I am no longer embarrassed by it. Would you be so kind as to keep him locked up until I work up a decent amount of shame for being his brother? -MH_

"To be perfectly honest, I'd drop you in a heartbeat if I had an ultimatum between you two." Alex was saying. "But until then, ... I don't exactly believe in abstinence." the photographer purred suggestively, leaning in for a kiss...

...Only for his lips to come into contact with Lestrade's palm. Alex pulled back a little and looked from Lestrade, to the hand wedged between them, and back. "I think I've had a bit much to drink." Lestrade spoke preemptively before he did. "Sorry, I think I'm going to call it a night."

Alex's gaze softened. "So it's like that, then?"

Lestrade rubbed his temple. "It is, God help me."

"You've got a later appointment with Mycroft?" Alex asked him teasingly, pulling back.

"My appointments are none of your business." Lestrade replied without malice. Then he pushed his chair out and stood up. "Anyway, if you think I can help find your Czech lover-boy, call me." He turned to walk off. "Although, he'd probably have to have a criminal record then!"

"Greg, that's not helping!" Alex called after his retreating back whiningly.

Lestrade just tossed a flighty wave behind him.

"Tell Mycroft I said 'hi'!" Alex teased.

"I won't!" Lestrade shot back, not stopping or turning.

"You're right! Tell him he's just texted me out of my date and that I have to go home alone now!"

Lestrade threw a rude gesture over his shoulder and Alex laughed.

* * *

"Again, Gregory, I am compelled to apologize for Sherlock." Mycroft sighed as he, Lestrade, Sherlock, and John walked out of New Scotland Yard to part ways.

Lestrade shook his head. "Don't worry about it."

John glanced back and forth between Lestrade and Mycroft before hooking his fingertips in Sherlock's sleeve. "Anyway, we're calling it a day. Sorry about all this, Greg." and he pulled Sherlock away into a waiting cab.

"Look at that." Mycroft smirked at the retreating couple. "In the beginning it was Sherlock leading and Dr. Watson following like a lost puppy. Now it's the other way around."

Lestrade's face split into a grin and he let out a mirthful chuckle. He glanced at Mycroft only to see the man staring at him thoughtfully. He cleared his throat nervously when Mycroft didn't avert his gaze. "...What?"

Mycroft looked like he was about to say something before shaking his head. "It is nothing."

Lestrade didn't believe a word. But he let it slide past. "Alright. Good night, Mycroft."

"Good night, Gregory." Mycroft watched Lestrade turn around and walk away to where he had parked his car. He let out a breath and pulled out his phone to re-read the text he had recieved from Anthea a few days ago.

_He's not ready. It's too soon. He's still recovering from Pupshaw and York. Give him time. -A_

Mycroft sighed and watched Gregory melt into the darkness and felt an unsettling feeling broil in his stomache like a bad premonition. He shook his head. He trusted fact and logic, not gut feelings.

He looked again. Lestrade was gone.

He frowned a little and walked the short distance to his car and drove off for home. Nobody realized the sharp eyes watching the separation of their group. The silence was broken by the observer's phone ringing.

_Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin alive, stayin alive...!_


	49. Burning

Burning

When Mycroft first woke up that morning, he did not expect his life to crash and burn around him. But it did. And it began with an untraceable phonecall at six o'clock that morning.

_"Hellooo, Big Brother!"_

Mycroft silently signed to Anthea to run a trace. "Moriarty." Anthea's eyes narrowed before she busied herself with the trace.

_"Glad you remember me."_ Moriarty grinned sharkishly.

"What do you want?" Mycroft asked. "What do you wish to accomplish by calling me?"

_"All work and no play makes Big Brother a very **boring** playmate."_ Moriarty crooned with that insane lilt in his voice. Mycroft said nothing, instead, he waited for Moriarty to continue. _"I haven't forgotton your '**kind** hospitality'."_ Moriarty spat. _"Your **coercion** to make me talk."_ the criminal sneered, Mycroft pressed his lips into a thin line. _"I promised Sherlock that I'd burn the heart out of him if he didn't get out of my way. And he didn't." _Moriarty voiced in mock-regret._  
_

"I am not interested in listening to threats, Mister Moriarty. If there is a point to this conversation, I would thank you to make it speedily. And be concise." Mycroft said icily. "I am a very busy man."

There was silence on the other end, then Moriarty sighed. _"Very well, spoilsport. The fact of the matter is that, despite the fact that I am changeable, I am a man of my word."_ Moriarty paused again for buildup. _"Sherlock's going to **burn**. I will burn the **heart** out of him,"_ Moriarty began speaking faster, his tone more frantic and manic. Psychotic. Mycroft could almost imagine his lip curling in distain, pulling away from his teeth in a feral snarl. _"and when I do, I will let him see despair moments before I **kill** him!"_ Moriarty took a break to breathe. _"But **you**-... the_ **_Iceman_**." he spat like a curse. "_I think I'll let you live. To **suffer**."_

And then the connection cut off.

Mycroft looked to Anthea who shook her head. They had not been able to get a trace.

Meanwhile, in the Tower of London, Moriarty stared at his phone for a moment in brief pause. He glanced around at the tourists milling around him, smiling, laughing, come to see the Crown Jewels. The calm before the storm. He fitted his earphones into his ears and closed his eyes as the first notes of 'A Thieving Magpie' trilled directly into his brain.

It was the beginning of the end. The rise of the fall. The match that strikes the flame.

And Sherlock. _Would_. Burn.

* * *

"Mycroft, what the Hell is going on!" Lestrade snapped into his phone as he struggled to provide support to the team of police forces outside Pentonville Prison. He had come directly from the Tower of London after taking Moriarty in custody and dropping him off at Scotland Yard. "Just like a snap of his fingers and all three secure facilities open up?" He swallowed thickly. "Is that even possible?"

There was a brief silence on the other end. _"I'm afraid we must believe it is true."_ Mycroft sighed.

"Do you have a counter measure for this kind of situation? A contingency plan?" Lestrade asked desperately. "Shit! There are civilians in there! Christ!"

He could see a few stranded prison guards and visiting civilians trapped inside the prison. Luckily, the police had been notified about the break-out before the prisoners got out of the facility. They had barricaded the prisoners inside. Unfortunately, they had also barricaded the civilians and guards inside as well.

The prisoners did not wait a moment before unleashing their pitiless rage for the unfortunate guards. It was like one of those horrific zombie movies in which a few of the good guys who could not get out fast enough must be sacrificed to contain the virus. The people outside watched in horror as one by one, civilians and guards were torn away from sight and sucked into the surging throngs of angry inmates. They were not looking for negotiation.

Those who were fortunate enough to escape could only watch from the outside helplessly. Lestrade hated the feeling. It made him sick, nauseous.

"Mycroft..." he breathed heavily, jaw tight. "Tell me, what can we do?"

But Mycroft could not.

Lestrade hung up a few minutes later and let his head fall back on his shoulders, his hands hung limply at his sides as he pressed his eyes shut and tried to force himself not to hear the screams and shouts for help.

A whisp of black smoke sifted through barred windows somewhere in the building. A fire had broken out inside the prison walls. How many people would burn before help arrived?

* * *

Mycroft collapsed into his desk chair with a heavy sigh. He had spent the greater part of the day on the phone and in meetings with important people who were concerned about Moriarty's code.

Countless plans were made to contain the damage should the code be used on any facility or asset.

Mycroft's head was filled with numbers, what ifs, and analysis reports on the damage so far. Seventeen casualties in Pentonville Prison, forty some injured, no breakouts. Mycroft must commend the police's lightning-quick response to the threat. In comparison, no damage had been done in the Tower of London, and Mycroft was still waiting on the full report from the Bank of England.

* * *

_The jury found the defendant 'not guilty'. -MH_

Lestrade stared, blinked, rubbed his bleary eyes, and slapped his face a few times but the message never changed.

_How? -Lestrade_

_Internet connection. Moriarty threatened the juries' families. An oversight on my part entirely. -MH_

"Detective Inspector!" Someone called out from across the room. "We need you over here!" Lestrade glanced up.

_He'll come after Sherlock. -Lestrade_

_I know, I've taken precautions. -MH_

_I'll be back soon, give me a day or two. The situation at Pentonville is beginning to calm down. -Lestrade_

_That is a relief to hear. Unfortunately, I will not be able to meet you on your return. I am expected to attend a meeting in the States, Virginia. -MH_

_Langley? CIA? -Lestrade_

_Everybody is worried about Moriarty's code. -MH_

_Well, good luck with that. -Lestrade_

* * *

Mycroft's meetings in the States went as smoothly and according-to-plan as an apocalypse on crack. Unfortunately, that was to be expected when facing a threat such as Moriarty and his code. He had meetings with foreign ambassadors, presidents, directors of securities, and computer whizzes all working toward the same goal of containing and destroying Moriarty's code.

Now, he just wanted to go home and sleep.

He eased slowly out of the jet and onto wet tarmac of Heathrow Airport. It seemed like something changed every time he got off a plane. The first time, he had touched down in England, just back from Washington D.C, and found out that Sherlock had gained new neighbors on Baker Street. All assassins. He had called John immediately and informed him of the danger.

The second time, he was making a pit stop between Spain and Japan to meet with their technical analysts. He heard that Sherlock had rescued the children of a British Ambassador but somehow had been accused of fraud and was on the run. Unfortunately, he could not find time to text Lestrade for the details.

The third time, he returned to England to get the consultation of the Defence Intelligence and found pictures of Sherlock on every front page, being slandered as a hoax. John caught him at the Diogenes Club and questioned him about Moriarty.

The fourth time, it was Anthea who had called Mycroft back home. She met the exhausted man at the foot of the folding stairs beside his jet and solemnly gave him the bad news. And Mycroft was not even remotely ready to hear it.

"Sherlock's dead, Sir."

A week, that was what Moriarty gave him. A week before Sherlock burned, before he died. Mycroft had to give it to him. Despite his insanity, his ruthlessness, and his vices. Moriarty was a man who made good on his promises.

Sherlock was gone, the nation was practically looking to him to find a solution to the impossible situation regarding Moriarty's code as if he held the answers to the Universe, John was understandibly upset with him and wouldn't speak to him despite Mycroft's calls, and Lestrade...

... Lestrade's name had been dragged through the media mud because of his relation to Sherlock, he had been fired from his job, John was also not speaking to him because he felt Lestrade had a hand in bringing about Sherlock's downfall, and he had seemingly disappeared from the streets of London. He was hiding away in his flat, nobody had heard from him.

He was gone. Moriarty was right. He had burned Mycroft's world down to smouldering ashes and he had let him live to suffer the consequences.

Mycroft pressed his eyes shut as he staggered with the weight of the news, his arm reached out to steady himself on the metal handrail and Anthea was on his other side in a moment, suggesting much needed rest.

Mycroft shook his head and asked her; "How can I?"


	50. Doubting

Doubting

When Lestrade woke up that morning he did not expect that in the space of a week he would doubt everything he ever knew and believed.

And it started with Donovan poking her head into his office, disturbing his breakfast. "Sir, there's been a break-in!"

"Not our division!"

* * *

Moriarty sat regally on the throne, mantle draped over his shoulders, scepter in one hand, crown on his brow, orb nestled between his thighs. He sat in the display case with the ease of a man who belonged, a work of art in himself.

He opened his dark brown, nearly colourless eyes and watched as police officers spilled into the room.

"No rush." Moriarty droned idly. _We've got all day. I've been waiting for you._

And the worst part about it? Lestrade knew he was. He knew the odds, the police's reponse time. Moriarty could've taken the Crown Jewels and ran. He could've gotten away, easy. Lestrade knew that unholstering his gun and pointing it at Moriarty would be a useless gesture seeing as they were surrounded by officers with guns already primed and aimed. Didn't mean that he didn't want to. He shook his head. "Mister Moriarty, get out of the case, you are under arrest-..." And so forth.

Moriarty complied easily, almost docily obeying every order the police gave him with that condescending smirk that Sherlock often wore. It conveyed amusement at the expense of a lesser intellectual, the exasperated fondness of a cat watching a mouse attempt to chomp on a lion for dinner.

It set Lestrade on edge.

Moriarty caught Lestrade's eye and obnoxiously twiddled the fingers of his handcuffed hand in a subtle wave. 'Hi, remember me? I'm the boogeyman who haunts your nightmares!'

Lestrade narrowed his eyes and stared back bullheadedly until Donovan tapped his shoulder, forcing him to look away. "Sir, we've got Pentonville requesting all the backup it can get."

Lestrade nodded. "Get a few uniforms to bring Moriarty down to the Yard." Donovan gave a clipped, professional response of assent. Lestrade turned to the other officers charged with Moriarty's custody. "Keep him under tight surveilance at all times. He does not escape, understand? I don't want him to scratch his nose without you knowing it." He got nods and grunts from all his collegues. "Donovan, you're with me." And they mounted their car again.

* * *

They could hear the commotion at Pentonville all the way down the road. Donovan was prematurely leaping out of the car before it rolled to a complete halt. He was right on her heels.

Riot police was already lined up behind their wall of plexiglas shields, barricading the prisoners inside Pentonville, preventing anybody from going in or coming out.

"Who's in charge here?" Lestrade had to bellow over the noise. A passing officer decked out in body armour pointed him in the direction of a plain clothes detective poring over a blueprint spread on the bonnet of a car. A few other officers decked out in full riot gear were scattered around him.

Lestrade marched over. "Pardon, DI Lestrade, you said you wanted backup?"

The detective angled his large body slightly to accommodate their arrival but his eyes remained glued to the blueprints. "DI Bradstreet, you have any experience with riot control?" he asked, getting right down to business before he even spared them a look.

"No." Lestrade replied honestly. "But I do know a thing or two about tackling criminals."

DI Bradstreet grinned at him. "I can work with that."

* * *

Lestrade had just gotten off the phone with Mycroft when DI Bradstreet finally peeled himself away from his large group and approached him. "We're retaking the prison in just a minute." he said, then he looked at the phone in Lestrade's hand in slight distaste. "Couldn't it wait?"

Lestrade followed his gaze and pocketed his phone. "Not really." He shrugged helplessly. "No more distractions now." he promised.

DI Bradstreet nodded grimly. "Let's go, then."

The two of them stood back to let a few of their officers shoot tear gas and pepper spray into the prison as they pulled on gas masks. They exchanged glances and nodded firmly.

Then the police infiltrated the facility.

The first living civilian Lestrade came by was a female visitor who had hidden herself in the kitchens. She was terrified, half-crazed, and the thunder of the police's combat boots, gas masks, and armed guns did little to calm her.

Lestrade motioned for DI Bradstreet to continue on without him and he holstered his handgun and pulled his mask away from his face. He knelt at the woman's side. "Ma'am, are you alright? Are you unharmed?" he asked slowly to the woman, she seemed to be in shock.

When the woman did not look at him, he placed his palm on the side of her face, cupping her cheek, and gently but firmly turned her face toward his, forcing her to look into his eyes. "Are you alright?" he asked again, gentler this time.

A brief flash of uncertainty, then the woman nodded. "U-uh, huh. I think so."

He smiled as unthreateningly as possible. "That's great, that's good. Can you stand?" He held her steady as he pulled her to her feet.

"Sir!" Donovan called when her wave of officers reached them.

"Donovan, get this woman out of here!" Lestrade told her, easily moving the disorientated and pliable woman into Donovan's capable hands. He could hear his sergeant murmuring comforting things to her charge all they way until they were gone.

Lestrade joined the second wave of officers in Donovan's place as they caught up to DI Bradstreet's unit. They were busy shoving inmates back into cells, a few shots went off somewhere in the chaos.

A large, grizzly inmate lunged at Lestrade with a crudely formed knife and Lestrade swung his gun into a tight arc, pulling it up between him and the inmate. "Stand down and drop the weapon!" he shouted.

But the man didn't. Lestrade tightened his jaw, blew out a steadying breath, and squeezed the trigger.

* * *

Lestrade let out a heavy sigh as he stared a clock on the wall opposite himself. He was sitting on a hard plastic chair in the hospital. DI Bradstreet sat beside him a few empty chairs down, looking equally as exhausted, legs splayed out like the limbs of an inanimate puppet.

It was four in the morning and neither of the two DIs felt the urge to move a muscle.

The prison riot at Pentonville was under control, the whole thing lasted only about a day and a half. But emergency repairs and damage control had eaten up the last few days. People were still turning up dead or injured.

As if to demonstrate, a flurry of hospital staff flew by them with a stretcher in tow. Lestrade caught DI Bradstreet's deadened gaze for a second before looking away. They were tired, they lost much of both men and morale, DI Bradstreet looked half-asleep.

Then his phone buzzed with a text from Mycroft and DI Bradstreet opened his eyes a crack. "Do you never put that down?" he asked, voice gravelly from shouting and smoke inhalation.

Lestrade sighed, shaking his head. "'The jury found the defendant 'not guilty'." he read aloud as he texted back to Mycroft to ask how that had happened.

"Which defendant?" DI Bradstreet asked curiously.

"Jim Moriarty." Lestrade rolled his eyes. "The man who is responsible for-..." He splayed his hands open to gesture to their grim situation. "... this."

DI Bradstreet blinked. "Pentonville?" With all that had been going on, nobody could find time to sit down and read the newspapers anymore. It was the first time DI Bradstreet heard of the trial.

"And the Bank of England... and the Tower of London. Simultaneous assault to the security systems." Lestrade sighed and explained about Moriarty and his code.

DI Bradstreet took a moment to let his words sink in. He looked in shock. Lestrade knew the feeling. "Holy fuck. Is that even possible?"

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Yeah. Apparently it is. People are calling it the 'crime of the century'."

"So..." DI Bradstreet frowned to himself. "We can lock those inmates up... but we can't necessarily keep them there? Theoretically speaking."

Lestrade didn't answer him, he had already considered that. What if Moriarty or one of his men used the code to open up Pentonville a second time? What about a different prison? The police were a force to be reckoned with but they wern't invincible. They had already lost two officers and three others were in hospital beds, the rest of them were on their last legs, surviving on bad coffee and energy bars.

For once, Lestrade was forced to doubt the strength and authority of the police force in the face of threats like Moriarty.

"Is there a way to fix this?" DI Bradstreet asked finally, face pale.

Lestrade waved his phone aloft. "That's what my friend is working on."

DI Bradstreet snorted. "Then, by all means, keep the phone."

Then, somebody called from across the room. "Detective Inspector, we need you over here!"

Both DIs sighed heavily out of habit, then glanced hopefully at each other, not wanting to get up. "They calling you, or me, mate?"

* * *

It was good to be back in his office, behind his desk, in a clean suit, and properly shaven. The moment he had returned from Pentonville, he had been thrust into the British Ambassador case with Sherlock and his paperwork was beginning to stack up again.

He sighed, cracked his knuckles, and braced himself for a long night.

"Sir." Lestrade froze, his pen inches from the first report he needed to write. He looked up to see Donovan and Anderson standing in his office doorway. "Can we talk to you for a moment?" Donovan was frowning and Anderson shifted nervously.

This did not bode well. Lestrade put his pen down and motioned them to enter. "What is it?"

Donovan coughed uncomfortably. "Well, Sir, we wanted to talk to you about the Freak-..."

* * *

Dimmock was struggling into his jacket when he decided to pop in and check up on Lestrade. He had heard about what happened in Pentonville and wanted to see Lestrade himself, make sure the man wasn't dozing and drooling on his paperwork. God knows he'd be exhausted after an ordeal like that.

Then he heard voices in Lestrade's office and could barely make out Donovan and Anderson's silhouettes. He paused.

"You're not seriously suggesting he's involved?" Lestrade's incredulous tone cut through the hushed murmurs.

"I think we have to... _entertain_ the possibility." Anderson replied quietly. Lestrade stared at Anderson like he was contemplating punching him, or firing him... and then punching him, or something. Then he seemed to think better of it and rubbed his hand over his face.

Dimmock knocked on the office door and poked his head inside. "Sorry, am I interrupting something?"

Donovan and Anderson whipped around like startled rabbits, probably thought he was Sherlock or something. "Um, no, we were just leaving." Donovan cleared her throat. Then she looked at her superior. "Think about what we said, Sir." Then she plucked pointedly at Anderson's sleeve and the two walked out.

"Come in, Dimmock, and close the door behind you." Lestrade sighed tiredly. Dimmock could already see new stress wrinkles growing on his face.

"What happened?" Dimmock asked concernedly. "Is something wrong?"

Lestrade stared at his desk for a long moment in silent, then he sighed and looked up at his long time friend. "Donovan and Anderson think Sherlock's a fraud." he stated bluntly. "It's a bunch of bullshit."

"Is this about the British Ambassador case I heard you closed today?" Dimmock asked. "Little girl had a panic attack when she saw Holmes, right?"

Lestrade nodded. "All Donovan and Anderson are bringing up are biased suspicions and weak circumstantial evidence." he spat.

"So?" Dimmock asked. "Nothing's going to stick for very long, so what's the problem?"

Lestrade raked his fingers through his hair with an angry sigh. "The problem is that Anderson, I can forgive for being an idiot. But Donovan is a good officer, someone who's judgement I can usually trust without a second thought. ...And now she's bringing up biased suspicions and weak circumstantial evidence. I _know_ she's better than that!"

"Donovan and Anderson have it in for Holmes, everybody knows that." Dimmock sighed. "They hate him and they're going to do their best to discredit him in any way they can. They've been waiting for a situation like this like vultures. Did they suggest you talk about this to the people 'upstairs'?"

Lestrade sighed. "Yeah."

"Well, the people 'upstairs' are going to hear about Holmes whether it comes from you, or them. That's not going to change." Dimmock shook his head grimly.

"So you're saying I should be the one who brings the law down on Sherlock's head?" Lestrade drawled sarcastically.

"Would you trust Donovan and Anderson to inform the higher ups without bias?" Dimmock asked pointedly.

"Sherlock's not a criminal, and he's definitely not a killer!" Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose hard. He would probably trust Donovan on any other day and ask her for her opinion on the matter.

"No, he's not. And we know that. Donovan and Anderson don't know that only because they don't want to. They desperately want him to be the bad guy and they're not going to think twice about making him look like it." Dimmock lowered his voice. "I think you should tell the higher ups yourself. Keep in control. Dictate what they know and what they don't. Buy yourself time to prove Sherlock's innocence and then you can tear Donovan and Anderson a new one when you're done."

Lestrade massaged his head. "I really can't handle this right now." he groaned.

"You're going to have to." Dimmock told him, sighing. "But it doesn't mean you have to handle it alone. Couldn't you ask Holmes's brother to help you? Hell,_ I'll_ help you!"

Lestrade stared thoughtfully at the surface of his desk. Then he nodded. "Alright. Dimmock, look for all the cold cases Sherlock's solved for us, will you? He couldn't very well be the mastermind behind those cases if he wasn't even born at the time."

Dimmock gave a mock-salute. "On it, boss." and he left, shrugging his jacket off again.

Lestrade smiled slightly as he watched him leave. It was good to have a friend he could trust in moments like this. He pulled out his phone.

_Mycroft, I need help. -Lestrade_

Nothing. Lestrade busied himself with his paperwork. Fifteen minutes later...

_Mycroft, where are you? I really, really need your help. It's about Sherlock. Text back. -Lestrade_

He went upstairs to talk to the Superintendant about Sherlock and walked back out half-an-hour later with Sherlock's arrest warrent in his pocket.

_Mycroft, are you even there? Respond, please. It's urgent! -Lestrade_

_Sorry, Mister Holmes is unavailable right now. Can I take a message? -A_

Lestrade tightened his jaw and exhaled through his nose. _Nevermind. Tell him to contact me next time he's available. -Lestrade_

"Hold on, just let me get my coat." he called to Donovan and Anderson as they marched away, eager to get on with the arrest. He pulled out his phone and selected the only person he knew that would respond to calls and texts like a normal person.

The call connected and Lestrade sucked in a breath. "John-..."


	51. Following

Following

"John, I'm sorry, I really am." Lestrade said over the phone to John. "But we've got our orders now. We're on our way." He hung up on John's incredulous protests and turned to follow Donovan and Anderson.

He nearly walked straight into Dimmock. He jerked back with a yelp, pressing his hand over his chest. "Damn it, Dimmock! Make some noise when you walk, you could've killed me!"

Dimmock looked at the phone in his hand grimly. "Lestrade, you _do_ understand that if I had been anybody but myself, you could've been fired, or worse, thrown in jail for that call." Lestrade's shoulders slumped under the weight of the legitimate threat but his expression was unapologetic. Dimmock sighed. "Just be more careful next time."

Because he knew there would always be a next time. Lestrade would never not back Sherlock up.

Lestrade slipped his phone into his pocket and raked his fingers through his hair as he glanced at Anderson and Donovan's retreating backs in the distance. "I feel like a fucking spook." he blew out a nervous breath.

"Funny, I'd always wanted to be a spy when I was a kid." Dimmock joked to make light of the situation.

Lestrade rolled his eyes slightly. "Just find those cases." Dimmock nodded.

* * *

"Sherlock Holmes, I am arresting you on suspicion of abduction and kidnapping." Lestrade said tonelessly as if reading from a really, really bad script.

Sherlock looked over at John when the other man protested. "It's alright, John."

"He's not resist-... No, it's _not_ alright!" Lestrade was half-inclined to agree with John there. He could feel Sherlock's gaze on him and it made fire ants crawl under his skin so he consentrated on John's growing panic. "This is ridiculous!"

Somehow, Lestrade realized his tongue had been trapped between his teeth, a nervous habit he thought he had trained himself out of. He stopped it. "Get him downstairs now." John's resistance sparked again when Sherlock was led out of the flat.

"You know you don't have-..." John started.

"_Don't_ try to interfere, or I'll arrest you too." Lestrade snapped at him. He was exhausted, angry, and concerned but, he realized, he shouldn't have taken that out on John. But it was too late to take it back now.

John paused and let his eyes slide closed with a sigh of resignation.

* * *

Lestrade was out by the cars when he heard the commotion. John was shoved against a police vehicle beside Sherlock and cuffed also. The Superintendant was wobbling out of the flat after him with a handkerchief to his nose.

Lestrade was just about starting toward them. "Hey, what-...!" Donovan joined his side meekly.

"He punched the Super." she said quietly before he could ask.

Lestrade looked from the bleeding Superintendant, to John just in time to hear Sherlock speak to him. "Joining me?" he sounded amused.

"Yeah." John blew out a huffed breath. "Apparently, it's against the law to chin the Superintendant."

Lestrade almost laughed. He bit back the urge to say; "Well, bloody good for him!"

"Alright, load up." he said instead, to Donovan. "We're not doing any good here." He wanted to go back and see how Dimmock was faring on his super-spy mission.

"Ladies and gentlemen, if you will all please get on your knees!" Sherlock shouted suddenly and he whirled around.

Sherlock was pointing a policeman's gun at them. An arrest, Lestrade could deal with. Getting Sherlock out of police custody? That wasn't too uncommon either. But handling an escape attempt?

Lestrade groaned and threw his hands up exasperation. Trust Sherlock to make things very, _very_ difficult. He had no doubt that Donovan's attention was halved between Sherlock's escape and his own lack of shock at Sherlock's actions.

This situation reminded him of that one case on Boxing Day a few years before John came into the picture... Oh, no. Not again...

Everybody else was too shocked to move. Sherlock raised the gun and discharged it into the sky twice. John yelled in protest at the noise. "Lower your guns!" Sherlock shouted.

Alright, damage control. Best not let them kill Sherlock for his idiocy. Lestrade decided to take the initiative despite the fact that it was technically the Superintendant's job... by the way the man was cowering from the shots, he didn't look like he would mind Lestrade taking control.

He waved his arms in the international 'put it down' gesture. "Do as he says!"

The two fugitives backed away slowly. "J-just so you're aware," John was saying "the gun is his idea." Lestrade's eyebrows quirked a little. The gun was Sherlock's doing, but the escaping part? The poor man was with Sherlock all the way... he just had a few weak protests about the gun. "I-I'm just - uh - you know..." he trailed off.

Sherlock exchanged gun hands and pointed the barrel at John's head. "My hostage!" he declared.

Lestrade had to think there was something wrong with John's brain if Sherlock pointing a gun at his head made him relax the tenseness out of his shoulders and let out a sigh of relief. Or maybe it was the psychological relief in knowing that Sherlock was taking control of the situation. "Yes! Hostage! That works-... _that works!_"

Still-... gun. Head. Trust. That there? Is true love.

The two rounded the corner and Sherlock broke out into a run, John followed dutifully.

Lestrade had half a mind to just let them go.

And then the Superintendant was shrieking into his ear to pursue. Lestrade just shrugged his shoulders and followed orders. He flipped open his notebook and began scribbing down addresses.

"What's that, Sir?" Donovan asked him as they reentered their car.

"A list of Sherlock's previous addresses. Who knows, he might go back. Familiar grounds and all." he told her. For anybody who knew Sherlock more than just as 'a freak', it would be glaringly obvious that there would be no logical reason for Sherlock to return to addresses he no longer lived at.

But still, the Superintendant didn't know that, and disappointingly, neither did Donovan. So they decided to check his leads out. It was good that Sherlock got kicked out of so many flats. There were alot of places to waste police time on and would thin them out considerably throughout the city.

If he happened to catch a glimpse of Sherlock and John pressing into the shadows of a back alley as he passed, he didn't mention anything to Donovan.

* * *

"You're sure you want to go through with this?" Dimmock was asking when the two of them were locked securely in Dimmock's office. Lestrade's office was the object of too much nosey glances at the moment.

On Dimmock's desk was a mountain of files. Some new, some old. All solved by Sherlock. Lestrade felt a brief swell of pride in his chest. "Yeah, lets do this."

Dimmock searched out his gaze. "You could get fired for this, you know."

Lestrade let out a sad sigh. "I know. But I knew the consequences when I let Sherlock in on cases. It's my responsibility."

Dimmock shook his head. "You know, I don't understand your loyalty to Holmes."

Lestrade smiled reminiscently. "No, neither did Mycroft." He frowned a little. "And neither did Donovan. ... I think John's the only one who didn't have anything to say about it." Then, he turned and buried his nose in one of the files.

Dimmock watched him for a moment. For the first time in a long time he thought about the Pied Piper of Hamelin, a story he hadn't thought about since he was a boy.

He compared Sherlock, who caught criminals, to the Pied Piper who cleaned up the streets of Hamelin of its rat infestation. He glanced at the newspapers already beginning to slander Sherlock's name and compared it with the greedy Mayor of Hamelin who refused to pay the Pied Piper what he owed him and drove him out. He thought of John, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade as the children who followed the Pied Piper into lands unknown.

Never to return. Always following the music of Sherlock's pipe. Sherlock would lead them away to where Dimmock could not follow.

He could not keep up with them. He'd go back home to the small, stupid town of Hamelin and he'd tell everybody about what had happened. He was the child following closely enough to realize and understand the magnificence that was Sherlock Holmes, but not close enough to join their merry band. He could not follow.

Anderson would be the deaf child, seeing but not believing. Only following so far as the forensic evidence Sherlock found led him. Donovan would be the blind child, hearing but unwilling to see. Following only so far as Lestrade orders her to.

"And I would be the sad, lame child." he murmured under his breath.

Lestrade didn't hear him, didn't even look up from his casefile. Perhaps the music of Sherlock's pipe was already too loud in his ears.

* * *

A/N: For anybody who may be confused, when Dimmock says he doesn't understand Lestrade's loyalty to Sherlock and Lestrade tells him that neither Mycroft nor Donovan did either, he was referring to things they said to him in chapters 13 and 20 respectively.


	52. Lost

Lost

_"Sherlock!" Lestrade shouted into his phone._

_He could hear Sherlock's thready breathing and the faint thrums of violin strings being plucked at. "**...Lestrade?"**_

_"Sherlock, shit, y__ou sound horrible. W__hat happened?" the cop demanded brusquely. There was only silence on the other end, even the violin was quiet. "Why did you call me? If it's nothing, I'm going to hang up."_

_**"Don't..."** Sherlock started, but snapped off the rest of his sentence._

_Lestrade sighed, he was working on another case. He might need Sherlock's help with this one. "Sherlock, what's going on? Talk to me."_

_**"I..."** Sherlock trailed off again. **"I-... um."**_ _Lestrade could hear the sounds of someone retching in the background.  
_

_Lestrade froze. "Sherlock, are you high?"_

_There was silence for a moment before Sherlock sighed. **"Yes-... no. I don't know."**_

_Lestrade groaned, Sherlock had been doing so well on his rehab for the last two weeks. "Sherlock, what hap-..."_

_**"I don't know where I am."** Sherlock blurted, the sounds of a violin string being plucked resonated in the background. Why he had his violin, of all things, with him wherever he was, was just another part of the mystery.  
_

_Lestrade stopped at that. "You don't know where you are?" he parrotted dumbly._

_**"Polly want a cracker?"** Sherlock quipped back with a strained giggle._

_"Shut up. Where-...? I mean, what do you see?" Lestrade pushed himself up from his desk, his chair scraping back on the floor._

_Sherlock heard it. **"You don't have to come. I'll find my own way."** he said in cold, clipped tones._

_"I'm not your brother, Sherlock. You can admit you need help with the expectation that I'll offer it to the best of my capabilities, no strings attached." Lestrade sighed in exasperation._

_There was another stretch of contemplative silence. **"Lestrade... I-... I need..."** '...help.' Sherlock let out a sigh and shook his head. **"It wouldn't be too presumptuous of me to ask you to come find me?"**_

_Lestrade laughed. "All you had to do is ask. I'll find you, stay put."_

_"**I don't know where I am, how would YOU know where to find me?**"  
_

___"Dunno, but I** will** find you."_

**_"Lestrade-..."_**

_Sherlock's voice began to fade out..._

* * *

"... -et up, Lestrade!" Dimmock slapped the surface of the desk near Lestrade's face.

Lestrade started and surged upright at the desk. He rubbed sleep lines from his face. It had been a dream. A memory from before John... before he and Mycroft became friends. He remembered feeling annoyed and constantly irrate at the very mention of the man.

Sherlock had still been on drugs.

Lestrade swallowed and looked up at Dimmock expectantly. "What?"

"Morning, sunshine." Dimmock grinned. "How's the neck?"

Lestrade rubbed the sore body part. "Holding my head up by a frazzled nerve." he groaned. "What's going on?"

Dimmock nodded toward the clock on the wall of his office. "It's already nine in the morning, didn't want to wake you but I knew you'd skin my arse if I let you sleep."

Lestrade blinked, then looked down at the mounds of casefiles that he had been using as a pillow. Then everything about the night before came back. He groaned and dropped his head onto his arms again.

His head was throbbing, the back of his neck was cold and clammy, a classic symptom of a growing fever, his muscles were still reeling from the abuse they had been subjected to at Pentonville, and he didn't want to ask Donovan to get him coffee or anything... he didn't want to see her at all.

"I want to die." he croaked into his crossed arms.

Dimmock winced at the horrible sound of what had once been his voice. "Well, buck up. Holmes doesn't seem the type to clear his own name." He patted Lestrade's shoulder. "I'll get you some coffee... and maybe something to eat." Then he walked out.

Five minutes later, Lestrade finally scrounged up enough energy to lift his heavy head. He checked his phone for any missed calls or texts. He hoped to hear from Mycroft, he hadn't been able to get in contact since Moriarty's trial. John was studiously ignoring him despite his texts.

There was one text from Sherlock. _Kitty Riely. -SH_

Lestrade did a double take. Then he rubbed his gummy eyes. A small part of his brain already began panicking. Dimmock took that opportunity to walk in with two styrofoam cups of coffee and a brown paper bag of doughnuts.

Lestrade put his phone down on the desk and flicked it toward him, causing it to spin and skitter across the desk. Dimmock slammed his hand down on it before it could fall off the edge of the desk.

"Kitty Riley." Lestrade said, leaning back in his seat and digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. "R-I-E-L-Y. Please tell me that Sherlock did _not_ just spell it as such."

Dimmock looked at the text and shrugged. "Misspell. Happens all the time."

Lestrade removed his hands from his face. "Sherlock doesn't misspell. _Ever._ In fact, the last time he misspelled was in Dartmoor and his shaky fingers missed the right keys spelling 'Baskerville' as 'Baskercile'. Mycroft, who had been hacking my phone, saw it, panicked, and made me go out there to find him."

He hadn't actually been terribly worried about the break-in at the research facility. Lestrade probably wouldn't have been able to do anything about it anyway, being a humble copper and all.

Dimmock looked nonplussed for a moment. "Sorry, I don't get the 'Baskerville' reference."

Lestrade rolled his eyes in exasperation. "The case doesn't matter! What does matter is that Sherlock was scared."

"Is it possible?" Dimmock wondered skeptically, then he shook his head. "Anyways, what do you think has got him spooked this time?"

Lestrade shook his head. "I don't know." He turned his spinning chair and rolled over to Dimmock's computer. "But he told me to look up Kitty Riley so that's a start."

* * *

Three hours later, Dimmock's office was littered with murder boards with Moriarty's face plastered all over it. Under it was written in Lestrade's blocky handwriting. JIM MORIARTY (RICHARD BROOK?)

Dimmock found him just as he was writing down all informative details of actor Richard Brook's online profile. Birthdate, birthplace, acting school, ect. He'd go out and ask around to see if all the information was legit.

"Not coming to eat lunch?" Dimmock asked lightly.

"Uh-uh." Lestrade grunted the negative around the whiteboard marker cap wedged between his teeth.

"I'll just get you a sandwich, then." Dimmock shrugged to himself. "By the way, Donovan was wondering where you were."

"Tell her I went home."

* * *

Lestrade's musings were interrupted by his phone chiming with an incoming call. He put his marker down and picked his phone up. It had been half hidden by his now empty sandwich wrapping and Lestrade brushed a few breadcrumbs off the screen.

Dimmock looked up from the other end of the desk where he was still poring over Sherlock's casefiles. "Who's it from?"

"Molly." Lestrade replied. At Dimmock's blank look. "Molly Hooper. The pathologist at St. Bart's." Dimmock nodded in understanding and returned his attention to his work.

Lestrade accepted the call. "Lestrade."

_"Um, Inspector, it's-... well, it's Molly. Molly Hooper."_ Molly blustered.

"Yes, Molly, I do remember you." Lestrade smiled affectionately. The woman could never get over her awkwardness around people. Lestrade had known her for years and she still gave her full name when she called him. It was a little endearing. She was a sweet social hazard like Sherlock was a rude one.

_"Um, it's about Sherlock..."_ the pathologist began.

"He's a fugitive for now, Molly, you might not want to tell anyone that he's over there." Lestrade told her flatly.

_"Y-you knew he was here?"_ Lestrade could imagine the woman - no - _girl's_ embarrassed expression.

Lestrade glanced briefly at Dimmock. "Let's just keep that bit of information between us, shall we?" he sighed ruefully.

_"O-oh, of course."_ Molly stammered back.

"Anyway, you said something about Sherlock?" Lestrade steered her back on track. "Is he and John alright?"

_"Yes, they're fine..."_ Molly said uncertainly. _"... No, actually. I-I don't know."_

Lestrade furrowed his brow. "What do you mean, Molly?"

_"It's... it's Sherlock. He's worrying me."_

Lestrade swallowed, casting a look at the murder board, suddenly feeling dread. Moriarty was watching though Richard Brook's mild-mannered profile pictures.

_"He's... acting strange. Of course, under the circumstances, I wouldn't blame him! But, um, last night he told me that he wasn't alright. He said he thinks he's going to die. I don't... I don't know what he meant by that."_ Lestrade swallowed thickly. _"And when John left he-... he looked like he wanted to cry."_ Molly broke off into soft sniffles. _"I'm scared."_

"Molly, just stay put, I'm going to try and get in contact with John and Sherlock, okay?" Dimmock looked up, sensing the worry and gravitas in Lestrade's voice.

_"Okay. But hurry."_

Lestrade was already texting Sherlock and dialing John's number before Dimmock could ask what that was all about. "I don't know yet." was Lestrade's reply. "But I've got a bad feeling about it."

John declined his call, Lestrade got Mycroft's voicemail, and Anthea promised to get people on scene as fast as possible. Lestrade tugged on his jacket. "I'm going out, Dimmock. Call if anything happens."

* * *

_Sherlock, whatever's happening, stay put. Don't do anything stupid. No, scratch that, you're already a fugitive. **Stop** doing stupid things. I'm on my way to St. Bart's. -Lestrade_

Sherlock gripped his phone tightly as he marched slowly up the stairs to the roof. He allowed himself a small smile.

_"**I don't know where I am, how would YOU know where to find me?**"  
_

___"Dunno, but I **will** find you."_

Figures that Lestrade would know that something was wrong in a flash. He could hear nothing but his shallow breathing and the _clump, clump_ of his footfalls echoing on the staircase.

_What would you say is my most infuriating trait? -SH_

He slipped his phone back into his pocket and opened the door to the roof. He walked out at a leisurely pace as Moriarty came into view.

_My inability to stay still? Or my habit of doing everything I am told not to do?_


	53. Hurt

Hurt

Lestrade was stuck in traffic when Dimmock called him. He growled in annoyance at the red tail lamps of the car in front of him and picked up his phone. "What?"

_"Lestrade."_ Dimmock sounded, for all the world, like someone had died. Lestrade had known Dimmock since their academy years, he knew _exactly_ what his funeral voice sounded like.

"St. Bart's?" Lestrade asked in a hoarse whisper.

Silence. _"Lestrade..."_ Dimmock said again, slower this time.

"He's dead, isn't he?" Lestrade cut him off, he swallowed thickly, warmth already seeping into the corners of his eyes. "Sherlock."

Dimmock didn't even bother asking him how he knew. _"I'm so sorry."_

* * *

Lestrade walked into the morgue a few minutes later, the police on duty hadn't even arrived yet. Anthea was just outside making a few calls, John was sitting numbly in the hallway, a few nurses flitting around him like soothing butterflies.

"John." Lestrade's voice broke in the one syllable.

John looked up, eyes hollow. Then, something hot and angry replaced the emptiness in his eyes and he was lunging at him, arm swinging. Lestrade caught the punch square in the jaw before he could even move to defend himself.

A few of the nurses around them yelped in surprise. "You bastard!" John rasped through his raw throat. A male nurse tried to restrain the ex-military man from behind and tugged the smaller man backward. "You bloody-...!"

"I'm sorry, John." Lestrade said quietly, clutching his thobbing jaw, eyes cast down. "I _am_... sorry."

John opened his mouth a few times before closing it. Nothing he could think of saying to Lestrade felt quite appropriate. He roughly shook the nurse's hands off himself. "I don't want to look at you." he mumbled under his breath and stalked out of the hospital. He rudely brushed by Anthea on his way out and the woman watched them both concernedly.

Lestrade shook his head at her, rubbed his hand over his face, and let out a shaky breath. A few nurses approached him to treat the injury but he just waved them off.

Feeling the hurt was better than feeling nothing at all.

* * *

The Superintendant was furious when he found out Lestrade was already on his way to St. Bart's before the news of Sherlock's death even reached New Scotland Yard's ears. Lestrade witheld evidence on a case. He collaborated with a fraud. He was more than likely an accessory to Sherlock's suspected crimes.

Nobody even batted an eyelash when he was formally dismissed from the force to appease the disturbed public and to set an example to the other officers. But it didn't mean they had to like it.

Dimmock, for one, was pale and angry. He didn't speak to anybody while he helped Lestrade pack away his things into cardboard boxes. Anderson's lips were pinched and he mumbled something under his breath along the lines of 'overreaction' and 'didn't mean to get that far'. Someone punched him. Maybe two people did, Lestrade didn't know for sure.

Donovan... Lestrade didn't care to observe.

He put the last of his personal belongings into the back of his car and shook Dimmock's hand. "Well, that's that." he tried to shrug casually.

"I'm sorry." Dimmock replied mournfully. "For your loss... all of it." Lestrade wanted to hug him, instead, he opted to pat his shoulder. "If there's anything I can do to help..."

Lestrade smiled sadly. "Thanks Dimmock, I appreciate it, but that's a pretty incriminating offer right now." Then, with a last look at the building that had been both home and workplace for nearly his entire life, Lestrade turned away and got into his car.

He paused for a brief second, hands on the steering wheel. It was anti-climatic at best, this ending. He shifted gears and rolled off the curb.

He drove away and didn't look back... well okay, he may have stolen a glance through the rear-view mirror.

* * *

He unloaded all his boxes in his sitting room and collapsed on his couch. Sherlock was an idiot. He pulled out his phone and held it in the air above his head and read the saved message.

_What would you say is my most infuriating trait? -SH_

That he is - _was_ - a stupid, arrogant, superscillious, selfish-... the list could go on forever. Lestrade gripped his phone tight and pressed the back of his hand to his hot forehead as he felt heat prick at his eyes.

He shook his head violently and rolled up to a sitting position, ignoring the spell of dizziness and nausea that caused him. He stumbled into the shower and washed up. Then, dressed in a baggy T-shirt and drawstring sweatpants, he transported his boxes into the guestroom he had turned into an office since Sherlock stopped spending the night after moving into Baker Street.

What now?

It was four in the afternoon and he had no idea what to do.

* * *

Two hours later, Lestrade had just burned himself on the stove for the second time while trying to make himself dinner when Anthea showed up with Chinese takeaway.

Lestrade stood at the door dumbly for a moment or two before stepping aside and inviting her inside.

"How's Mycroft holding up?" he asked her. "I haven't exactly been in contact with him since Moriarty's trial."

"Mister Holmes was very busy." Anthea sighed. "I'm afraid he hasn't been taking the news about his brother's death very well. He had been working himself to death before it and when he heard the news, he - um - collapsed."

Lestrade jumped up, pale. "Christ! Is he going to be alright?" _Oh God, please let it not be something serious!_

Anthea placed a grounding hand on his forearm. "He's alright. It was just a combination of rest deprivation and shock. He's taking a few days off. I insisted."

Lestrade sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. "Okay... that's good. He should get John to take a look at him though, just in case."

Anthea looked at him strangely. "You haven't heard?" Lestrade looked up in confusion. "Dr. Watson and Mister Holmes arn't exactly on speaking terms at the moment."

Lestrade let out a humorless chuckle. "It's not just me, then?"

Anthea sent him a sympathetic look and told him about John and Mycroft's meeting at the Diogenes Club. Lestrade, in turn, told her about him arresting Sherlock and John's understandable anger at both him and Mycroft.

"We're a bunch of screwups." Lestrade sighed, rubbing his throbbing temple.

Anthea placed a cool hand on his warm forehead. "You're both overworked, ill, screwups. You need to go to bed." She got up and rummaged around in Lestrade's bathroom, looking for medicine and a thermometer.

Lestrade braced himself mentally and dragged his feet sluggishly into his bedroom. A few minutes later, Anthea poked her head inside the doorway. "Where did your thermometer go?"

Lestrade took a moment to remember. "It died an honourable death in one of Sherl-..." he clamped his jaw down, paling again. Then he regained his composure. "Sherlock used it for an experiment and it broke. He had promised he'd get me another one." He tried to shrug casually and failed miserably.

Anthea made him take his medicine and made sure he had alot of fluids within close reach of his bed before going away to look after Mycroft.

"Tell him I said 'hi'." Lestrade mumbled, already half-asleep. "And tell him, 'Sorry'. 'Bout Sherl-..." And then Lestrade was asleep.

Anthea brushed his damp, matted hair aside and sadly reminded herself not to call John over to keep the sick man company. She locked up and left the otherwise empty house. She'd visit as soon as she was able.

* * *

John was roused from memories of his former flatmate by a knock on the front door a few days later. He heard Mrs. Hudson bustling around downstairs to answer it.

"Oh, Detective Inspector! I was wondering when you'd come about, come in!" John jumped up from his usual armchair and darted out of his and Sherl - no, just _his_ - flat. He marched down the steps, feeling a few tugs of psychosomatic pain in his leg as he walked.

"Oh, it's - um - just Lestrade now, Mrs. Hudson." Lestrade mumbled from the doorway. His voice sounded a little off.

Mrs. Hudson stepped aside to let the man in when John was suddenly there, slamming the door in his face. He could hear Lestrade sigh on the other side of the door and Mrs. Hudson sent him a sad, reproachful look.

"I-..." John croaked. "Sorry, Mrs. Hudson. I can't-... not yet." He rubbed at the burn in his eye and stalked back upstairs and locked himself in _his_ flat.

Mrs. Hudson dropped her face in her hands and sobbed. She pulled out her handkerchief to wipe away her tears and realized that it was the handkerchief Lestrade had given her when she told him about her husband.

That sent her on another bout of heartbroken sobs.

Lestrade pressed his eyes closed after hearing all that while hovering on the front step. Then he turned and walked away.

* * *

The next day, Mrs. Hudson found a box of still warm doughnuts for John on the front step. The next day found a bag of groceries for Mrs. Hudson, she remembered telling Lestrade how she was loathe to get out of the house for weeks after the death of her husband.

The third day found flowers from Mycroft with a note of apology both for Sherlock and for not being able to deliver the flowers himself.

The fourth day saw a letter of apology from Lestrade. He did not defend himself, and he did not ask for John's forgiveness, but he did beg that John take care of himself.

And then the gifts from Lestrade stopped showing up.

John huffed and expressed his half-hearted relief at that, but Mrs. Hudson didn't miss the way that he occassionally peeked out of his sitting room window, wondering if he'd see the face of a friend.

Wondering if he was ready to, if he would ever be ready for it.

Nights found him in the presence of nightmares about Afghanistan, of black-haired consulting detectives, and running, near soaring through the streets of London on Sherlock's heels in the great pursuit of a melancholy violin tune not created so much as discovered with The Woman in mind. He ocassionally felt the ghostly touch of warm hands on the sides of his face, '_Concentrate!_' or gripping his hand as they dashed through the streets with the sound of police sirens and a hound's growling urging them ever onward, '_Take my hand!_'

Many nights found him jerking awake, drenched in sweat, curled up in Sherlock's bed.

He had found, in the recent days, that the only solution for the problem was to bite down on his fist and choke back sobs until the pain in his chest subsided.


	54. Forgiving

Forgiving

Lestrade hadn't visited Baker Street for two days straight. It was almost beginning to worry John... _almost_. He had gotten an unwanted visit from Anthea who asked him to call her if Mycroft happened to show up. Apparently, he had somehow slipped out from under her watchful eye. He had bitterly wondered aloud who's life Mycroft was in the process of ruining.

Anthea had levelled him an ice cold gaze and told him flatly, "His own."

And that had worried him even more.

* * *

It came as a shock, then, when he got a visit from Donovan later in the day. Mrs. Hudson, bless her, had tried to slam the door in her face as John had done to Lestrade but Donovan had jammed her foot through the door. John had come out then, only out of guilt for inconveniencing Mrs. Hudson and to get over whatever Donovan wanted as quickly as possible.

There was no idle chatter between Donovan and John. "I'm sorry for what happened to Mister Holmes." was the first thing said.

"Sure you'd be sorry." John snapped back. Donovan should be glad that John did not hit women or she would be schedueling a dentist's appointment with Lestrade.

"You know damn better than most that I don't sugarcoat anything and if I say that I'm sorry for what happened, I mean it!" Donovan ground her teeth audibly. "I was wrong and unprofessional. I admit that I let my personal grudges blind my judgement, and I'm sorry, alright? But no matter how I didn't get along with Mister Holmes, I would _never_ wish anything like that to happen to him."

Silence. "Alright." John glowered. "Now get out."

Donovan swallowed, nodded stiffly, and turned to leave. Then she turned back. "Have... have you heard from Lestrade, at all?" she asked tentatively.

"He's _your_ boss, isn't he?" John huffed, rolling his eyes and moving to close the door in her face.

Donovan looked visibly upset, now. "Not anymore, he's not."

That got John to pause. "What do you mean?"

Donovan took a deep breath. "He - um - came clean with the higher ups." John furrowed his brow and Donovan explained. "He pulled up all the previous cases that Holmes worked on for him. He proved that Holmes wasn't a fraud, the newspapers are getting on the story now but it'll still take time and evidence for people to believe it. Lestrade - um - he was fired from his job a few days ago and hasn't been heard from, since."

"He cleared Sherlock's name?" John asked dumbly, the only thing he had sucessfully understood from Donovan's words.

Donovan scowled. "Don't look so surprised, that's just Lestrade." John looked at her. "Lestrade always looks after his team, and even if I and most other officers don't want to admit it, Holmes was _always_ one of ours in Lestrade's mind."

John felt the faint stirrings of pride and camaradierie for a part of the man he had never known.

Donovan let out a weak chuckle. "He'd always say 'He's a great man, and one day, if we're very, very lucky, he might even be a good one'." She shook her head. John remembered. "He's probably the only one who'd still think that after knowing Holmes for years. Holmes's brother included."

John let out a soft snort. Then he looked at Donovan in hopes of understanding. "Did you know him for long? Sherlock, I mean. Why did you hate him so much?"

Donovan stiffed slightly under John's gaze. Then her shoulders slumped and she leaned against the opposite wall. "I was a rookie cop before I met Holmes, one of the few women trying to become a homicide detective. I had - uh - dealt with my share of pressure and bullying, most people tried to discourage me from it, told me I was better working behind a desk. Lestrade was the only one who told me to do whatever I believed I should do and that whatever choices I'd made, he'd back me up."

Donovan chuckled a little, a reminiscent look in her eye. "I told him I wanted to be in homicide. So he put a baton in my hand and said 'then, let's go catch those bastards'. Just like that. He took a lot of heat for getting me on his team for a while. And I worked hard to pull my own weight and more, I was promoted to sergeant a while later and people stopped talking about it."

"And then I met Holmes. Well, Lestrade introduced me to Holmes." Donovan pressed her lips together, eyebrows furrowing. "Do you know what it's like? To see someone you admire most in the world work so hard to do something good for somebody, and then see that person turn around and treat your friend like dirt?"

John pressed his eyes shut and inwardly cursed Sherlock's rude tendancies. Now he was beginning to understand Donovan's hate for Sherlock.

"Holmes pissed me off like nobody else could, I won't lie." Donovan tugged at a few strands of wild hair. "I - um - I'd thought I'd left the interdepartmental ribbing past me, but... when Sherlock came around and announced my affair with Anderson to the world, it started up again like wildfire."

"I hated Holmes, for how he treated everybody, how he was so much smarter than us, how he flaunted it in our faces. Everybody hated it, we all do the best we can and we've worked hard to get where we are, but then he'd come and spit on us intellectually and the worst of it was that Lestrade would try to liason between us. Holmes hated us, and we hated him, and that made work so much harder for him... It didn't help that before Lestrade got him off the drugs, Holmes was a regular patron in the cells. Everybody knew him as a junkie."

John's eyebrows jumped. "He was...?" Then he remembered when Lestrade had organized a 'drugs bust' on the 'A Study in Pink' case.

_"It's a drugs bust!" Lestrade declared, seemingly perfectly content to sit comfortably as the flat was ransacked around him._

_"Seriously?" John asked incredulously. "This guy, a junkie? Have you met him?"_

_Sherlock rounded on him quietly. "John..." Lestrade had been grinning at him in amusement._

_"I'm pretty sure you can search this flat all day and you wouldn't find anything you wouldn't call recreation." John had tried futiley to defend his new friend._

_"John, you'd probably want to shut up now." Sherlock had said._

_"Yeah, but come on..." He looked at Sherlock. Sherlock stared back pointedly. "No..."_

_"What?" Sherlock frowned._

_"You?"_

_"Shut up!"_

John swallowed thickly. "So he was - um - ..."

Donovan's eyebrows quirked. "Holmes? Yeah." Then, seeming to remember that Sherlock was dead. "Sorry."

"He and Greg were close?" John asked next, realizing that neither Sherlock nor Lestrade spoke much of their past together.

Donovan nodded. "Lestrade probably spent more time with Sherlock than at Scotland Yard." John raised his eyebrows. "That was before you came along. I think he was just worried about the stuff Holmes would get involved with if he was left unsupervised. He was always complaining about Sherlock being an idiot, always about the drugs, the rehab, the Holmesian madness, constantly helping him move in and out of flats..." Donovan looked away. "Guess I was kind of envious of Holmes."

"And then when DCI Meadows died I-..." Donovan choked back a hiccup and determinedly held back tears. "I was just so _angry_ at him! I- I _wanted_ him to be the bad guy, sort of. I knew he wasn't, but he wasn't such a good guy either. I wanted Lestrade to _understand_ that. _God_, he'd talk about Holmes like the man hung the bloody moon, or something!" She looked at John thoughtfully. "You'd know, you talk about him in much the same way."

She shuffled uncomfortably. "I've never liked Holmes, personally, and I probably never will. But I just came to tell you, because I think you need to know, that I never wanted it to go this far. I never wanted something like that for Holmes. I know you probably will never forgive me, but I just-..." She sucked in a shaky breath and looked away. "I'm sorry."

John blew out a breath. She was right when she said that John would probably never forgive her completely, but now he understood why she had done what she did. "That's alright, Donovan. ... That's alright."

Donovan nodded gratefully. "Well, goodbye then. And, if you happen to see Lestrade, tell him I'm deeply sorry for my actions." Then she walked out.

Mrs. Hudson closed the door softly after her. "Well, he wasn't exactly a saint, our Sherlock." she sighed sadly.

John bit down on his lip for a while in deep contemplation. "There wasn't actually anything Lestrade could have done to help Sherlock, was there?"

"He could only have softened the blow." Mrs. Hudson remarked thoughtfully. "And, knowing Lestrade, I'm sure he did what he could."

John dropped his face in his hands. "I'm being a right arse, arn't I?"

Mrs. Hudson hummed the affirmative. "As tragic as it is, John, you're not the only one who's lost Sherlock."

* * *

John stepped briskly out of the cab and marched up to Lestrade's flat. Recently, his limp had come back, mostly when his mind had no distraction from the staggering grief of losing Sherlock, his flatmate, his friend, his-...

John shook his head.

His limp was near forgotton as he walked. He had a mission to complete. He lifted his hand and rapped on Lestrade's door. There was no answer and John knocked again.

This time, Anthea answered the door. "Dr. Watson, what a pleasant surprise." she remarked politely. "I hope you're not here to do Lestrade any harm."

John shook his head. "No. Is he in?" Anthea nodded once, stiffly, but did not move aside. "Is he alright? On second thought, what are you doing here?"

"I don't think Lestrade is in any condition for visitors right now." Anthea said slowly.

"Blimey, is he alright?" John asked in concern.

"He's-..."

Anthea was cut off by a rather worrisome cough in the background. "Who is it, Anthea?" Lestrade asked, sounding like death warmed over.

The doctor in John sent Anthea a wide-eyed look of horror and promptly pushed by her with profuse apologies for his intrusion. Anthea just smiled and took it in stride as she scrambled as elegantly as possible, out of the man's way.

Lestrade was curled up on his sitting room couch with a mug of warm soup cradled in his hands. He looked just as good as he had sounded. Lestrade looked up, saw John in the doorway, and his mug slipped through his weak grasp.

"Oh, shit! Christ!" Lestrade yelped, jerking his feet up into the air instinctively, curling them inward toward his body, as the porcelain shattered on the floor, spilling the contents onto the carpet.

Anthea and John snapped into action, the former levelling a steady gaze at the sick man until he agreed not to move. Thankfully, the mug held only a few sips of soup and the mess wasn't extragavant.

"I'm sorry." John heard Lestrade murmur quietly as he soaked up the last few drops of soup with a floor rag.

He looked back. "That makes two of us." Lestrade let out a soft grunt and slouched into a blanket that Anthea had brought out for him. "Um - thanks... you know, for the doughnuts... and for the groceries you bought for Mrs. Hudson, she appreciated it, you know."

Lestrade snorted. "Anthea got mad at me when we found out I'd been sneaking around outside. Put me on house arrest."

John chuckled. "Good for her." Anthea entered the room with a thermometer, a new one she had bought to replace the one Sherlock had broken. "I'm sorry about how I've been treating you for the past few days." John sighed.

Lestrade shook his head. "Understandable." At John's dubious look. "I know, John. And it's alright."

John grimaced. "Well, it bears repeating. So, uh, are we good here?" he asked awkwardly.

Lestrade shrugged and smiled a little. "We're good."


	55. Knowing

Knowing

John was a frequent visitor to Lestrade's flat since their brief talk a few days ago. John had taken full charge of Lestrade's treatment and he was well over his illness by now. Mrs. Hudson had also visited a few times bearing wonderful tea and scones. Anthea had slipped into the shadows again as was her character, but she still texted once every three hours in the least.

But still no word from Mycroft despite Anthea's assurances that he was already up and about.

The funeral took place a few days after that, it was a very small, private ceremony. No cameras, no reporters, no police... no doubt, Mycroft had a big hand in that. Lestrade and John only caught a few brief glimpses of the man and extended their due condolences.

Mycroft seemed paler and thinner than Lestrade had ever seen him, Anthea frowned regularly and the two of them excused themselves politely, they were very busy people, whether they had taken staggering losses or not. The world would not wait for them to finish grieving.

* * *

Lestrade and John were having a movie night with a few beers one fateful day. They were watching The Prestige, John's choice. The chooser of the movie, however, was fast asleep halfway through, body slumped away from Lestrade, curled around one of the new-old sofa's arms.

John was still having trouble sleeping and Lestrade was perfectly content to let him rest while he could and wake him when he began frowning or tossing in his sleep. Seeing John sleep made Lestrade yawn and feel a little drowsy himself so he turned off the TV and settled himself comfortably.

He took another swig of his beer and let his eyes fall closed. "Every magic trick consists of three parts, or acts. The first part is called the pledge, the magician shows you something ordinary: a deck of cards, a bird or a man..." He quoted, murmuring under his breath, he had watched the movie enough times to remember the words by heart.

He chuckled humorlessly. He remembered the first time he had seen the movie, Meadows had showed it to him. Lestrade hadn't been so enthusiastic about magic tricks but when he saw how pleased Meadows had been with the movie, he had bought tickets to a magic show for them both plus Dimmock, who would've probably feigned hurt for days if he was ever left out of something so fun.

_"It's called misdirection." Meadows whispered aside to him as they sat in the dark audience as the magician on stage made a show of rolling up his sleeves a few inches to demonstrate that he had nothing hidden there. "When the attention of an audience is focused on one thing in order to distract its attention from another."_

_Lestrade had been watching the magician's hands and arms, intent on catching a glimpse of some form of foul play, that he had missed the trick. In the blink of an eye, a white, silk handkerchief had transformed into a dove._

_Meadows and Dimmock turned and laughed at Lestrade's gobsmacked expression._

Lestrade chuckled reminiscently and took another sip of alcohol. He froze mid-sip as a peculiar thought occured to him. He lowered his drink and shook his head violently. Drinking really messed up his mental functions.

It was just a crazy thought. It couldn't be true, could it?

'Every magic trick consists of three parts, or acts. The first part is called the pledge, the magician shows you something ordinary: a deck of cards, a bird or a man...' _"Look up, I'm on the rooftop."_

"It's called misdirection. When the attention of an audience is focused on one thing in order to distract its attention from another." _"Keep your eyes fixed on me! Please, will you do this for me?"_

_'Don't look down, John, to where I'm about to fall.' _Went unsaid.

Lestrade rubbed a hand over his face and up to thread through his short hair. His thoughts were leading him down a path that he did not want to take, yet desperately hoped for. He screwed his eyes shut and willed himself not to think about the implications anymore.

Figures that it would be harder to stop his brain from thinking about something when he was halfway drunk.

_"You can't kill an idea, can you? Not when it's made a home." Sherlock tapped Lestrade's forehead. "There."_

Lestrade let out an annoyed snarl and pushed himself up from his seat. He glanced down to make sure John was still sleeping before he snuck quietly into his office and locked himself inside. John would probably be upset if he walked in on what Lestrade was investigating.

He approached his desk and powered up his laptop computer as he rummaged around inside his still unpacked boxes of belongings from the Yard. He plugged in the flash drive that Dimmock had managed to pass him on his way out.

Lestrade sat down and clicked on the first CCTV footage of the street at St. Bart's. He fast forwarded the footage to the time frame he wanted. He watched for a few minutes and then let out a growl. Nothing. Wrong angle.

He clicked on the second footage, different camera. In this footage, he could see the spot where Sherlock's body was found on the pavement. He swallowed thickly and braced himself as he selected the correct time frame.

Nothing. Then he saw John dismount a cab on the other side of the street. He pulled out his phone, walked halfway across the street, turned around and walked back, then he looked up at the roof of St. Bart's. After a few minutes of motionless standing, he took a few determined steps in the hospital's direction, then backed off again, hands raised placatingly.

Then something happened. Something so very mundane that Lestrade almost missed it. A flatbed truck rolled onto the curb directly in front of the spot Sherlock fell. It blocked off Lestrade's eyes on the scene.

John's expression fell into shock and he let his phone drop to his side as she shouted. Lestrade could easily read his lips. 'No-... _Sherlock_!'

There was a glitchy flash of black that dropped from the sky and disappeared behind the truck. Lestrade couldn't see Sherlock. John was also at a bad angle and could not see anything. Then he started off across the street just as the truck rumbled off down the street. John probably didn't even notice it.

Lestrade leaned back in his chair and frowned. The driver couldn't have missed seeing Sherlock fall. But nobody dismounted the vehicle to help.

A second point of interest. The street was empty when Sherlock fell. Halfway across the street, John was knocked over by a man on a bicycle. The man made no move to dodge John in the empty street, in fact, he seemed to be aiming to collide with the shocked man.

A third point. In the few seconds when John was being knocked to the ground and getting back up, the street mysteriously filled up with people, blocking John's contact with Sherlock.

Lestrade watched John wrestle his way through the crowd and grasp Sherlock's hand before being gently tugged away. Sherlock's body was loaded quickly onto a gurney and carted away into the hospital.

Seven minutes later, Lestrade saw his car pull up onto the street and he watched himself run into the hospital. Molly and the other doctors did not allow John or him to see Sherlock's body.

Sherlock's funeral ceremony was a closed casket one, at no point in time was the damned box opened.

_"It's a trick... just a magic trick."_

Lestrade stood up from his desk so quickly that his chair was knocked over and he rushed to the bathroom and promptly vomited. He sat there, on the bathroom floor, retching for the next three hours.

* * *

The next day was a warm, sunny one and Lestrade left John with Mrs. Hudson to give himself some privacy to find a little closure. He drove to the cemetery where Sherlock was buried.

The earth still hadn't fully settled and flowers still decorated the spot. Lestrade reached out and softly brushed the tips of his fingers over the surface of the smooth headstone as he brushed away dirt and a few dry leaves.

That was not the only thing he felt himself touch. He felt something thready catch between his index and middle finger, he lifted his hand. And he almost threw up again.

It was a strand of hair, black, thick, and curled. Lestrade had run enough hair analyses on Sherlock during his drug addiction that he knew exactly who the strand of hair belonged to.

Figures the man would come visit his own grave.

Lestrade bent over double, head between his kness, and wondered what the Hell he was going to tell John. Or Myc-... _Oh Hell_, Lestrade inwardly seethed. He wasn't naive enough to think that Sherlock could've pulled a stunt like this all on his own without Mycroft finding out. And if Mycroft did not 'find out'... that meant he must've had a hand in it from the beginning.

Bloody Holmeses.

* * *

A/N: Seriously, watch the Fall again. Sherlock's jumps, John get's hit, get's up, and rounds the corner just in time to see a truck roll off down the street to reveal Sherlock's body. Heartless driver? Or one of Mycroft's minions? Just speculation.


	56. Crafty

Crafty

It was high noon when Lestrade barged into the Diogenes Club and nobody even flinched at the noise his stomping footsteps made. Everybody knew Lestrade by sight if not by name. He was a humble legend in himself, everybody knew he was Mycroft's friend. A few saw his dark expression and helpfully pointed Mycroft out.

Lestrade stalked up to Mycroft's seat and grabbed the man's sleeve, pulling him out of the room to the Stranger's Room without any heed to Mycroft's silent protests. Once they were safely inside and Lestrade had closed and locked the door behind them, the ex-copper rounded on him. "Sherlock's alive, isn't he?"

To Mycroft's credit, he did not react except to blink once in a terribly calculated manner. "Excuse me?"

"Don't play dumb." Lestrade snarled.

"Despite my aspirations for omniscience, I am not psychic, Gregory." Mycroft said slowly.

Lestrade had to give it to him, he was a good actor. "Alright, if you're not going to explain to me what's going on, I'm going to find out on my own." he growled and turned to walk off. He stopped halfway out of the Stranger's Room and turned back to look Mycroft in the eye. "But you know, if you actually _didn't_ know what I was talking about, you'd ask me what I meant when I said 'Sherlock's alive', instead of only claiming ignorance." Lestrade raised his eyebrows and sent Mycroft a pointed look before disappearing.

* * *

His next stop was St. Bart's. "Molly." he called out when he saw the pathologist.

Molly turned with a weak smile. "Inspector."

"Just Lestrade, I'm not a copper anymore." Lestrade said wryly.

Molly flushed. "Oh! Goodness, I'm sorry! I remember Inspector Dimmock talking about it, but... it's a habit, you know?"

Lestrade allowed himself a small smile. "I know."

They fell into silence for a moment before Molly seemed to shake herself out of a reverie. "Oh, did you need something?"

Lestrade nodded. "Um, I know I'm asking alot from you, Molly, but do you think you can tell me about the day Sherlock... you know."

A pained look flashed behind Molly's eyes and she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Um, okay. I think I can do that." she said. "But, uh, if you don't mind me asking, why?"

Lestrade pressed his lips into a thin line. "I'm just trying to figure out what happened here." he replied vaguely.

Molly nodded slowly. "Okay..."

"So, Sherlock and John showed up the night before?" Lestrade asked and Molly nodded. "You called me the next day, you told me Sherlock said things that worried you. Do you remember what he said?"

Molly sat down on a bench and nodded. "I don't think I can forget." She tucked a nonexistant stray strand behind her ear. It was a nervous habit of hers. "He said... strange things. Things he would never normally say."

"Like?" Lestrade asked encouragingly.

"He said things like 'You've always counted', 'I'm not alright', 'I think I'm going to die', and... 'I need you'." Molly flushed terribly at the last phrase.

"Do you know what he meant when he said those things?" Lestrade asked her gently.

Molly shook her head violently. "No."

Lestrade was a veteran cop and he had grown skilled in the art of finding out lies. "Molly..." Molly looked away. "You know what he meant, don't you?"

"I- I don't-..." She was alot worse at lying than Mycroft was.

"Then, let me tell you my theory, and you can tell me if I'm wrong." Molly looked at him again. "Sherlock asked you to play along with his stunt." Molly blinked and her whole body trembled. "He told you he was going to jump off the roof and he asked you not to let anybody see or touch his body. He asked you not to tell anybody, didn't he?"

Molly let out a shaky breath and nodded miserably. "He was still alive after he fell. I don't know how. He just told me to collect his body from the street and make sure nobody saw or got too close to him. And then, a few hours later, after you and John left, his brother came to pick him up." she confessed. "He told me to act like he was really dead. It wasn't hard to do because he left, and I haven't seen him since."

Lestrade ran a hand over his face. So he was right.

"He told me to call you, before he jumped." Molly continued and Lestrade's head whipped around to stare at her. "He told me to call you, to tell you about the things he said. He told me you'd come." She looked at him. "And here you are."

Lestrade swallowed thickly. So everything had been orchestrated by Sherlock himself. Everything. From jumping, to surviving the fall, to Mycroft, Molly, even himself. But what about John?

"So what now?" he wondered aloud to himself.

"Sherlock left something for you." Molly told him. "He told me to give it to you if you ever found out about what happened." She stood up and skittered away to the staff area and returned with an envelope.

It was plain brown, the lip stuck with glue, and Sherlock's neat handwriting on the back.

_Lestrade_

Lestrade vaguely wondered if Molly was keeping similar envelopes with John's name, or Mycroft's, or even Mrs. Hudson's name on the backs. "He told me to tell you to open it when you're alone." Molly informed him.

Lestrade nodded. "Thanks, Molly. Take care of yourself." Molly smiled back in relief. The poor girl, it must have been such a burden to be one of the only ones who knew Sherlock was alive. To see what was being written in the papers, to see people close to Sherlock suffer, and not being able to tell them.

Lestrade tucked the envelope under his arm and returned to his car.

* * *

When he arrived home, he walked through the house to make sure he had no surprise visitors. Sometimes John, Mrs, Hudson, or Anthea would show up at random just to have a little company or to talk. He had made spare keys and given them all one after the first week.

But nobody was home. Thank God for that. Lestrade was dying to know what clue to the mystery Sherlock left him. He ripped the envelope open and dumped its contents out onto his office desk.

There was a single slip of paper inside. Lestrade picked it up and read it.

_Lestrade, if you are reading this then I am already dead... presumably. However, since you've gotten your hands on the envelope, I can safely assume that you've realized that this whole setup is a sham. I cannot tell you how regrettably sorry I am to have made you, John, and Mrs. Hudson believe that I am dead._

_If you are reading this then I am no longer in the United Kingdom. Mycroft would have predictably sent me into exile to some godforsaken country to keep me under the radar until the danger has blown over. And knowing myself, it would not be long before I escape him.  
_

_You must not look for me, Lestrade, do you understand? Depending on when you recieve this message, you, John, and Mrs. Hudson may still be in danger. It is imperative that you continue to behave like I am dead. Do not speak of this, especially to John. This may be unforgivable of me, but it is necessary.  
_

_In the same way that I know John would've never accepted anybody's word that I am dead without seeing my death take place with his own eyes, I know you would not let this case close unless I asked you not to pursue it._

_Dead or alive, Moriarty is dangerous. Lestrade, for once, I am asking you to leave a case unresolved. Do not look for me. Under the unique circumstances, I cannot contact you, but I will return as soon as I can. And when I do, you may expect me to explain in full.  
_

_And, while I know that I am asking much of you, look after John and Mrs. Hudson for me. In a moment of weakness I may confess that I hope you read this and realize a little of the truth of the situation. I need you to watch John's back. I don't trust anybody else for the job.  
_

_Will you do that for me?_

_-SH_

Lestrade raked a hand through his silver hair and tossed the paper back onto the desk. So there it was. Sherlock was alive. Alive and well while John killed himself slowly through his grief.

Lestrade dropped his head in his hands.

* * *

Lestrade shoved Sherlock's letter into Mycroft's hands the next day at the Diogenes Club.

Mycroft had turned an appalling shade of white, and then an angered red settled on his cheekbones. He stood up violently, causing his armchair to scrape back loudly on the floor.

People glared at them but Mycroft ignored it, never looking away from the page clutched in his hand. He motioned for Lestrade to follow him into the Stranger's Room.

"What is the meaning of this?" Mycroft demanded once they were alone, his eerie calm gave Lestrade shivers.

"What do you think it means?" Lestrade asked back challengingly, unwilling to give an inch. "Why don't you ask Sherlock?"

Mycroft settled on Lestrade with an unreadable gaze for a moment before returning his gaze to the paper in his now fisted hand. Then his gaze softened. "Sherlock was always unpredictable as a rule." he mused thoughtfully.

"Still is." Lestrade grumbled under his breath.

Mycroft's stern gaze snapped up to meet his. "_Was._ Sherlock Holmes is dead. I promised him he would continue being so until he returned."

"Where is he?" Lestrade demanded.

"I do not know." At Lestrade's dubious look. "I can honestly say that I am not lying to you, Gregory. You know how Sherlock-... was."

"We have to tell John, Mycroft." Lestrade declared firmly.

"We will do no such thing." Mycroft snapped back. "It's too dangerous, Sherlock seemed firmly under the impression that John's life would be in danger if he knew Sherlock was alive."

"Well he's killing himself slowly in thinking Sherlock's _dead_!" Lestrade exclaimed in frustration. "He can't sleep, can't eat, his limp is coming back, he thinks he sees Sherlock randomly on the streets and goes chasing after strangers... he's going back to his therapist, Mycroft." Lestrade looked Mycroft in the eye. "He's killing himself. And I can't let him do that. I can't lie to him, Mycroft."

"Please." Mycroft said softly. "Gregory, you know I am not one for begging, but I am now."

"Mycroft, no." Lestrade growled desperately. "You can't do that, that's not fair. John needs to know!"

"_Please_, Gregory." Mycroft said pleadingly.

Lestrade pressed his lips into a thin white line and stormed out before he could give in. Mycroft followed. By now, all the regular patrons of the club were accustomed to Lestrade's visits and his obligatory breaking of silence to say something less than polite to Mycroft, some were even looking forward to it, but they were not expecting that the honour was Mycroft's this time around.

"Gregory, will you _please listen_ to me!" Lestrade was halfway out of the door when Mycroft called out, an edge of desperation in his voice that metaphorically chipped away at his Iceman persona.

It was enough to make the stomaches drop out of every other man in the room because, oh my God, there's actually a _person_ under all that impenatrable armour. It made them wonder who on earth Gregory Lestrade is, to have broken through his defenses.

"He planned for this situation, and I trust his judgement." Mycroft said slowly.

"But at what cost, Mycroft?" Lestrade asked back pointedly. "What if John doesn't forgive him for his deception? Do you think he'd thank you for letting that happen? What if he comes back and John's not here anymore?"

"I'm sure he's analyzed every detail and contingency to perfection." Mycroft said. "He set plans into motion, lined his pieces up for the endgame-..."

"And you were one of them." Lestrade snapped, suddenly realizing. "You were his back-up plan, just in case the letter he left didn't convince me not to tell John. He'd know you're probably the only one who could stop me. Oh, that crafty bastard!"

Mycroft averted his gaze guiltily.

"Alright." Lestrade raised his hands in a forced calm, palms facing upward in a surrendering gesture. "Alright, I won't tell John. For now. Just know that I think you're full of shit, and I hope you're proud of yourself." He huffed and turned to leave. "Figures, Mycroft, it's the _one_ time you decide to be your brother's keeper."

And with that parting remark, he was gone. Mycroft's expression was impassive, but his shoulders fell almost imperceptively.

Everybody else in the room wisely pretended that they did not exist.


	57. Missing

Missing

Lestrade's life was officially shot to Hell. It was a broken record on constant repeat.

Wake up. It was never a fun thing to do. Ever since losing Sherlock and his job, Lestrade rarely ever felt the urge to get out of bed in a hurry.

Track down the newspaper. It depended on if he had visitors over. If it was Anthea, it would be on the coffee table. With Mrs. Hudson, it would be on the kitchen counter, preferrably hidden under something where it wouldn't be in plain sight. With John, you never knew. The more probable places to look would be, crumpled up in the garbage bin, in the shredder of Lestrade's office, or burnt to cinders in the kitchen sink. It all depended on how malicious the journalist would be.

After reading the paper, he'd check his e-mail. There were always many people asking after Sherlock's details, sometimes it would be concerned friends, sometimes just bored and curious ones. Nevertheless, Lestrade always set aside time to dutifully trash them with prejudice, leaving them unread. In reality, he checked his mail just to read the mails from his family. His parents rarely watched TV or read the newspaper unless someone told them Lestrade was on. Maisie sent him encouraging mails at least every day with assurances that their parents still didn't know about Sherlock, or Lestrade's dismissal from the force yet. Well, Mum had a feeling something wasn't right, she had her mother's intuition going for her after all.

After that, Lestrade would usually stop by Baker Street to see how John and Mrs. Hudson were holding up.

They hadn't gathered the courage to move any of Sherlock's things yet. John could hardly stand to live in the flat without Sherlock, but couldn't bear the thought of living in there with Sherlock's ghost.

They would always set the table or make tea with one set or cup too many. If either of them noticed that Lestrade occassionally invited Anthea to fill in the extra space, they didn't say anything. But Mrs. Hudson would get that grateful look in her eye and Anthea would find it harder to find excuses not to show up.

John walked around with a cane again and the bags under his eyes darkened with every day.

After visiting Baker Street, there was nothing in particular to be done. Lestrade usually spent the rest of his day cooped up in his flat, at a pub, or at St. Bart's. There was always alot of action at St. Bart's since Sherlock's 'death'. Lestrade never really liked going there, but he did. It pulled his feet toward itself like a magnet.

He was not the only one to visit.

Molly took to calling Lestrade every time she heard that John was on the roof of St. Bart's. She kept track of who came and went. At least once every three days was John. Once a week, with or without John, it was Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson brought flowers once, and only once. Dimmock came with every case and stole glances at the stairway leading to the roof but he never went.

Mycroft never went out on the roof, he never even walked into the hospital. But he _did_ stand on the pavement where Sherlock met the ground. The roof held no interest for him. It was on the ground that all the hidden drama occured, after all.

It worried Lestrade sometimes, when John visited the roof. He could imagine what he'd be thinking. What if he had stayed with Sherlock instead of going to see Mrs. Hudson? What if he had gone up to the roof with Sherlock to meet Moriarty? Could he have stopped Sherlock in time before he threw himself to his death? Would Sherlock say goodbye to his face?

Would he have died if John had stayed?

Lestrade knew it must hurt John to go to the roof but the man was a soldier through and through. He'd always tell himself he could handle it, buck up, you can do it. And he was always wrong.

Molly called Lestrade in today. John was lingering on the roof for far too long for her liking. She was growing concerned, so Lestrade came.

"Nice day out." he remarked dryly when he stepped out onto the roof.

He didn't see John at first, but he heard a hurried sniff. "Go away, Greg." John croaked back.

Lestrade's eyes fell closed. John was crying. Again. "John-..."

"Just-...!" John choked on his own words. "_Please_, ...just go." The grieving man was sitting on the roof, curled up against the spot where Sherlock had jumped from.

The wind whistled through both their clothes, filling them with a harsh chill. "Lets go in, John, it's cold." Lestrade said flatly.

"You go in." John sighed. "I'll be a few more minutes."

"No, John." Lestrade shook his head firmly. "Now. Please."

John turned his head away and pretended he didn't hear Lestrade. Lestrade just raised his gaze Heavenwards with a long-suffering expression and sat down on the concrete to wait the man out.

They sat in silence for a long time. The day was slipping away from them and the sun was just beginning to set.

"He was a magnificent man, wasn't he, Greg?" John sighed at length.

"Yeah, he was." Lestrade nodded slowly.

"Before I met him, life was just so... slow. 'Dull', Sherlock would call it. Get up, go through the motions, see my therapist, go to sleep. Rinse and repeat." John rubbed his face. "And then Stamford introduced me to Him. He had his brilliant moments, and his more negative traits, but - uh - to be perfectly honest, he was a hard man to hate."

Lestrade snorted. "I know what you mean."

"He was... infuriating, rude, and arrogant... but he was just so... _so_ brilliant." John coughed out a laugh. "Like the _bloody_ Doctor Who."

"Hm, 'Rude and not ginger'." Lestrade joked back.

"Exactly." John crossed his arms over his knees. "And then he had to go on, and on, with his Looks and his cool coat tricks, the bloody cheekbones..." Lestrade laughed and John smiled back sadly. "How can you not love a man like that?"

They fell silent again and Lestrade had to remind himself that John had not lost _only_ his friend and flatmate but something much more when Sherlock jumped.

"Do you ever wonder?" John asked, breaking the silence.

"Wonder...?" Lestrade parrotted.

"What Sherlock was thinking when he did... _it_." John sniffed and rubbed a hand over his tear-swollen face. "When he-... jumped. I do, sometimes."

Lestrade kept his mouth shut and waited for John to continue. This was a subject that both of them avoided like it was the plague. This was the first time they spoke of the Fall.

"He was crying, you know. When he stood up here and-..." John winced at the raw memory. "He wasn't a fraud, Greg. We knew that... and _he_ _knew_ we knew that. Why did he try to make us believe something that wasn't true?"

He sounded like a lost little boy. Sometimes it was hard to remember that John had killed people. He looked at Lestrade so hopefully, searching. Lestrade shook his head. "I don't have all the answers, John. God, I wish I did."

John raked his fingers through his short hair and let out a humorless chuckle as he stared over the edge as if caught in some kind of hypnotic trance. "Sometimes I think it's not such a bad idea."

It made Lestrade want to run across to where John sat, shake him violently by his collar and shout 'Sherlock's not dead you bloody idiot! He's alive!' But he didn't.

"Well, it bloody well _is_!" he snapped instead. "Don't-... don't say that. Ever. _Jesus_, John, ... just, please."

John looked suitably scolded. He ducked his head like a guilty child. "...Sorry." He took a deep breath. "It's just-... I miss him, you know?"

Lestrade bit his tongue. "We all do, John."

"I just feel like being here can- can bring him back somehow, but I know that's just wishful thinking." John moaned into his hands. "Wishful thinking, but I just can't stop myself from coming here. I know Mrs. Hudson hates it when I do, thinks next _I'm_ not coming back."

Lestrade pressed his lips together. "But you are," John looked at him, "arn't you? Going to come back, I mean."

John swallowed and nodded. "'Course."

Lestrade allowed a small, relieved smile and felt like he could finally breathe again. "Good. Because, I don't know what I'd do if you didn't. I'm trying to be strong, John, for Mrs. Hudson, for Molly, for you, but... I'm not _that_ strong."

John huffed out a choked breath as he leaned back, staring up at the colouring sky. "I think Sherlock and Donovan thought you're the bravest, strongest person they knew."

"Past tense because obviously they hadn't met you, yet." Lestrade quipped.

They exchanged glances and released small chuckles. It was... it wasn't good, the situation they were in. It was horrible, and agonizing, but sometimes things would get a little better. Like thieves, they stole little laughs and smiles when they could.

They wern't 'good', they wern't even 'alright', ... but that was okay too. They were okay. And they had hope that it was going to get better.

"Let's not come here anymore, John." Lestrade sighed to his friend with a note of finalty.

"Only if you don't." John shot back.

"Hm, okay." Lestrade grunted.

John blew out a long sigh as if exhaling the poison tormenting his system. "Let's go home."

Lestrade nodded. "Let's."

* * *

Lestrade stared at his phone thinking. Then he flipped it open and scrolled down to Dimmock's phone number contemplatively. Then he pressed the call button.

_"Dimmock."_ the man on the other end grunted. _"What's up?"_

"I need your help, Dimmock." Lestrade grimaced. "And I think you'll not like the reason."

_"Oh, no. That's never a good thing."_ Dimmock groaned. _"What can I do you for, anyway?"_

"I need everything Scotland Yard has on the Holmes/Moriarty case." Lestrade heard Dimmock choking on something on the other end. "They've closed down the investigation, Dimmock, they won't miss the files... probably."

_"Lestrade..."_ Dimmock tried to reason.

"I know, I know! I shouldn't get into it, and all that... But I just can't _not_, you know?" Lestrade moaned in despair.

Dimmock huffed._ "Once a copper..."_

"Damned for a lifetime." Lestrade cut Dimmock off morosely.

Dimmock laughed a little at that. _"Alright. I'll see what I can do."_

"Thanks, Dimmock. I owe you one."

Lestrade hung up and put his phone down. Sherlock had asked him not to investigate, but he also wanted Lestrade to understand a little of the situation. He wanted Lestrade to look after John and keep him safe, but he didn't want Lestrade to tell him he was alive. Headache-inducing contradictions, all of it.

He could only ask one thing or the other of Lestrade. And Lestrade felt the need to investigate the case. He was a copper. He just couldn't leave it alone, could he? He was just a man, after all, and susceptible to temptation.

He straightened up, hands on his hips, and wondered how he was going to hide a case board in here from John and Mrs. Hudson.

In the meantime, he wondered where on earth Mycroft was. He dialled the man and waited.

**- Error. This number is no longer in use. Please try again -**


	58. Leaving

Leaving

"Mrs. Hudson!" Lestrade called out when he entered the Baker Street flat. It was pouring outside and he shrugged off his coat, shaking his head a little like a dog shaking off water from its fur. "Mrs. Hudson?"

Mrs. Hudson sidled out of her flat and beamed at him. "Oh! Gregory! It's very nice to see you!"

"I was in the neighborhood and decided to pop by. I hope you don't mind the intrusion?" Lestrade grinned. There were only three people on earth who called him Gregory. One was his mother, the second was Mycroft, and Mrs. Hudson took to calling him that after he lost his job with Scotland Yard.

"Come in, come in! You must be drenched, it's the awful weather. Just awful!" Mrs. Hudson tutted.

Then they heard John loping down the stairs from his flat. He was shrugging on a coat. "Leaving so soon?" Lestrade asked him curiously.

"Going back to work at the clinic." John shrugged. "I could use the practice."

"Well good for you, mate!" Lestrade grinned, happy for the man. He seemed to be getting back on with his life, while Lestrade, on the other hand, still could not shake himself out of his copper's mindset just yet. "I bought some stuff at the breadstore down the street, I'll just leave it upstairs."

"Ta, mate." And with that, John was gone.

* * *

"John seems to be getting alot better now, doesn't he?" Mrs. Hudson hummed lightly over their tea.

"Uh, huh." Lestrade swallowed his mouthful of tea. "Seems a bit brighter."

"Getting back on his feet, looks like." Mrs. Hudson smiled. "And how are you, Gregory?"

Lestrade winced a bit. "Uh, not quite there yet." He squirmed under Mrs. Hudson's look of concern. "I've always, um, dealt with grief by-..." He huffed out a humorless chuckle. "By ignoring it, essentially. I've always distracted myself from it with my job, with helping other people, until it sort of numbed down to something I could handle. But I don't have my job now. No distraction, nobody to look after, John's handling himself well now, ... no Sherlock." Lestrade let out a shaky breath. "No nothing."

But Sherlock wasn't dead. Lestrade bit his lip and squirmed a little and felt fire ants crawling under his skin as he always did when he lied to the people close to him. He glanced at the woman who could be described as Sherlock's surrogate mother. "How are you doing, Mrs. Hudson?" he asked as a diversion.

They talked for another half hour but Lestrade hardly heard any of it. His mind was filled to the brim with Sherlock, Mycroft, Anthea, John, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Moriarty... Should he tell John? Should he not?

"Gregory?"

Lestrade jerked out of his thoughts with a slight gasp of surprise. "Wow-... completely spaced out there! Jesus..." He rubbed a hand over his face. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson."

Mrs. Hudson tutted at him. "You need some rest, I think. A break from all this." She frowned a little in concern. "Maybe you should take a vacation."

"'Vacation'... what's that?" Lestrade deadpanned. It was a sort of cop joke... it wasn't as funny now. His shoulders sagged visibly at the realization.

"I think it's about time you should learn about it." Mrs. Hudson smiled at him kindly.

"Maybe I should." Lestrade sighed, defeated.

* * *

_"Greg? It's Maisie, how are you doing?"_ Lestrade heard even before he was fully awake. It was more instinct than thought out action to pick up his phone when it woke him.

"Maisie? I'm fine." White lie. "What is it?"

_"..."_

Lestrade blinked at the silence, more awake now. "Maisie?"

_"You didn't forget, did you?"_ Maisie asked him.

Lestrade mentally flew through his calendar. It was very quick work ever since he had lost his title as Detective Inspector. "I didn't forget about your birthday, if that's what you're wondering."

_"Course, you never forget my birthday!"_ Maisie grinned. _"But I'll bet you **did** forget that you promised you'd drop by to be there for it."_

Lestrade frowned in confusion for a moment. "Liar. I did _not_." he pouted. "Nice try, though."

_"**Okay**, you didn't."_ Maisie conceded. _"But it was worth the shot. You did, however, agree to think about it."_

"Um..."

_"Did you think about it?"_

Lestrade grimaced. He hadn't. "Course I thought about it!"

_"Liar, liar, pants on fire!"_ Maisie sing-songed.

"Maisie!" Lestrade growled without much heat. "I'll be there, okay?"

_"You're the best, Greg."_

"Only for you." Lestrade smiled affectionately.

_"We'll be waiting, then. I'll tell Mum to dust down your room."_ Maisie hung up.

Lestrade shook his head and chuckled at his phone.

* * *

"Dorset, huh?" John hummed thoughtfully as he sipped his pint.

"For the sister's birthday." Lestrade shrugged back. "I could never say 'no' to her." He took a gulp of his alcohol. "And Mrs. Hudson thinks I need a vacation. Quite frankly, I'm inclined to agree with her."

"How long do you think you're going to be gone?" John asked him.

"Dunno, yet. Haven't decided. Maisie wants me to get the Hell out of London until the media stops crazing about Sherlock. Mum's always badgering me to visit because my folks don't see me often enough. And I'm just trying to figure out what I'm going to do from now." Lestrade let out a heavy sigh before losing himself in his drink.

"Sounds like you'll be gone for a while." John remarked. His tone was a combination of nonchalance and unease. Appearing cool enough with the idea of Lestrade leaving semi-permanently to keep Lestrade comfortable with it in order to cover up his hope that his friend didn't actually go through with it.

"Yeah." Lestrade sighed at his friend, then he brightened. "But, hey! You can always visit if you start missing me." He grinned mischeviously.

"Now don't pride yourself." John smirked back. "I won't miss you _that_ much."

"Seriously, though, Mum's been nagging at me to bring back friends from London for a long time. It won't be a bother if you stopped by. The folks would be delighted about it, I think." Lestrade smiled warmly. "Besides, it's not like I'm a hundred percent certain that I'm staying over there permenently."

John nodded. "I suppose."

* * *

"Where are we going?" John asked a few hours later, leaning drunkenly into his friend. "I don't think this is the way back to Baker Street."

Lestrade giggled a little. "No, it's not."

"Where're we going?" John asked again.

"Dunno, but somewhere far away." Lestrade hiccuped. "I-... I need to tell you somethin' real important just in case I'm not coming back to London. I don't want Mycroft overhearing us."

"Is it a secret?" John giggled.

"If I told you, I'd have to kill you. But I won't kill you because you're my friend an' I think you'd kill me before I can kill you." The two fell into another fit of alcohol induced snickers.

They sat down on the curb of an empty street and just stayed there until the dizziness and ringing stopped. "You said you needed to tell me something important?" John asked him, thankfully devoid of his slur.

Lestrade sucked in a breath. "Yeah." Now that he was sober, he was itching for another, stronger drink. "John, whatever I'm about to tell you here, you can't tell anybody, okay? Not even Mrs. Hudson, and definitely not Mycroft because he'd kill me."

John eyed him warily. "Well arn't you the superspy."

Lestrade turned to face John strightforward. "Sherlock's alive, John."

Shock flashed across John's face before anger, than a blank mask. "That's not funny, Greg. Someone needs to teach you how to improve your sense of humor."

"It's not a joke, John. You know I wouldn't joke about this." Lestrade grimaced. "And, I would say that 'you know I wouldn't lie about this', but I did. And I'm sorry."

"Explain, Greg. _Now_." John voice was carefully devoid of any emotion.

"He faked his death, John. He needed to leave, he seemed to think that we - you, me, and Mrs. Hudson - were in some sort of danger. He left to protect us, John. At least, I believe that." Lestrade told him.

"And you knew, the _whole_ _time_?" John tried to keep his tone level, but is voice cracked. "You watched-...? Mrs. Hudson cried, every day for a _week_ after Sherlock jumped! I cried, Hell, I kind of wanted to kill myself and you watched?" he shouted angrily. "All the time, I worried about you, how you were handling Sherlock's death. Was that all an act?"

"I didn't know!" Lestrade shouted over his friend's angry rant. John fell silent. "That was all real, John. I swear to God, before three weeks ago, I. Didn't. Know."

They stared at each other in silence for a while, John calming his heavy breaths. "I thought something wasn't right. I-..." Lestrade swallowed labourously. "I ran back over the CCTV footages of Sherlock's death, I talked to Mycroft, to Molly."

"Molly was in on this?" John asked incredulously. Figures he wouldn't be so surprised to find out that Mycroft had a hand in it.

"Don't blame her, Sherlock asked for her help." Lestrade sighed. "She told me that Sherlock was still alive after his jump. Remember how they didn't let us in to see his body? That's because there was no body to see."

"No, I saw it. I _saw_ him jump. And I felt it. He didn't have a pulse." John persisted weakly.

Lestrade fumbled around with something under his thick jacket and waited a moment before extending his hand toward John. "See if I have one."

He didn't. John stared at him. Lestrade reached in under his jacket and pulled out a ping-pong ball. "You put pressure on the artery..." John breathed.

"No heartbeat." Lestrade nodded.

"But-... why?" John asked.

"I don't know." Lestrade confessed. "But I'm going to find out."

"Why didn't you tell me the moment you figured it out?" John asked, hurt.

"I-..." Lestrade bit his lip. "Because Sherlock asked me not to."

John's head shot up. "You _saw_ him?"

Lestrade shook his head. "He left a note. Told me not to tell you, or Mrs. Hudson. Asked me to look after you." He took a deep breath. "And I've thought about it, I really did... and I came to the conclusion that the best way to look after you like Sherlock wanted, was to make sure that you looked after yourself. You needed to know the truth... and here I am, coming clean." He spread his hands in a surrendering gesture as if accepting any punishment John felt fit to dish out on him.

John punched him. Lestrade let him.

"That was for not talking me about Sherlock the moment you suspected!"

He punched Lestrade a second time. "And_ that_ was for not telling me the moment you had proof!"

He dropped his aching fist on Lestrade's chest in more of a light tap than a punch. "That's for idiotically putting all your concerns toward me and Mrs. Hudson instead of looking after yourself. You're my friend, you know, Greg. How am I supposed to feel, knowing you've spent the last month smiling and putting on a brave face for the world when you're actually lying through your teeth and being the Holmeses' secret keeper? Mycroft... and Sherlock, ...they had no right to ask that of you."

The two of them sat on the street for a long time in silence, John calming himself, and Lestrade holding a handkerchief to his nose.

"God..." Lestrade sighed explosively cutting through the silence. "Mrs. Hudson was right. I need a vacation."

John let out a slightly hysterical giggle. "Yeah. I've known about Sherlock's secret for all of ten minutes and it's already killing me, knowing I can't tell. Christ, Greg, how are you not in a mental hosptial yet? I would've gone insane by now."

"I've been friends with the Holmeses for years, John. It comes with the territory." Lestrade grinned back. "And people wonder why I turned grey prematurely."

John let out another bout of high-pitched giggles. Then he calmed himself. "You're a good man, Greg." he smiled. "Thanks... for telling me the truth."

"Don't mention it." Lestrade shook his head. "I needed to get it off my chest anyway." They stood up and began the long walk home. "And I meant it, you know. Drop by Dorset sometime, if you'd like."

John smiled back. "I will."

"Well, this is my turn." Lestrade nodded his head in a different direction than John's. "Don't be a stranger, alright?"

They shook hands firmly and parted ways.

* * *

John visited Sherlock's grave with Mrs. Hudson the next day and squeezed his eyes shut as he thought of the man. The man who was not buried in this place. The man who was still alive.

He shifted from one foot to the other. "You... you told me once... that you weren't a hero."

_Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them._

"Umm... There were times I didn't even think you were human."

_ There are **lives **at stake, Sherlock! Actual human lives-... Just, just so I know, do you care about that at all? She's dying... You **machine**!_

"But let me tell you this. You were the best man, the most human... human being that I've ever known."

_Look at me. I'm afraid, John. **Afraid**._

"And no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, so... there."

_I'm a fake. The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson and Molly; in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you... that I created Moriarty for my own purposes._

He moved to touch the cold gravestone. "I was so alone... and I owe you so much."

_'I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper!' 'I-I'll just-... go get some coffee then...' 'Sherlock, you can't keep witholding evidence!'_

He made a move to leave, but turned back for one last desperate plea.

"But please, there's just one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be... dead. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop _this..._"

_Stop this act, this farce. Come back, Sherlock. Please._

John rubbed his hand over his face and walked away. Sherlock watched from a distance, face a pale alabastar, lips pressed into a thin line.

_Soon, John._

Then he too turned to leave.


	59. Finding

Finding

"I know, I know. I'm a terrible older brother." Lestrade groaned to an amused Eva, Paul, and Peter. "_Please._" he drew out the word, jutting his bottom lip ever so slightly out in a pout.

"Oh, no." His mother, Beatrice, said as she walked in. "I know that look. Gregory Lestrade, what are you trying to make them do for you?" She planted both her hands on her hips and raised her eyebrow in an unimpressed manner.

"Greg hasn't gotten Maisie her birthday present yet." Eva tattled gleefully, bouncing her infant son, Darren, on her hip.

"Only because he has no idea what she wants." Peter chimed in.

"He wants us to give him a hint." Paul threw in his two cents.

"Oh, thanks alot." Lestrade groused. "Good to know you guys have got my back." Beatrice levelled him a look that could make giants feel two feet tall and Lestrade wilted. "I just want to get her something I know she'll love."

Beatrice rolled her eyes and lifted her head a little. "Maisie, sweetheart, come here, will you?" she called without removing her gaze from Lestrade.

"No! It's a surprise! You can't _tell_ her!" Lestrade exclaimed, horrified. "Mum!"

Maisie came scampering into the room. "What's up?"

"Darling, would you mind showing Gregory around? He hasn't been back in ages, he needs to get back in touch with the locals." Beatrice smiled breezily. "And pick up a few carrots for dinner on your way back, will you? There's a good girl."

Maisie beamed and grabbed Lestrade by the sleeve. "You heard the lady! Let's go!"

Lestrade threw back a grateful look at Beatrice just in time to see their mother shake her head affectionately at the hopelessness of her children.

* * *

"So, what's the recent news?" Lestrade asked as he surreptitiously peered through shop windows in search of the perfect gift for his sister.

"Well, we found out that Darren's a genius for manipulation. Did he turn those enormous baby blues on you yet? He can't even talk yet but he'll get anything he wants on a silver platter, I swear!" Maisie grinned, oblivious to her brother absently sifting through a pile of women's earrings. "Eva and Paul have their own house nearby, they're moving in soon, Peter and I are working toward that. Still stuck with Mum and Dad, I guess. It's not a bad thing, though."

"Do you have your eye on anything in particular?" Lestrade asked distractedly, then straightened up, realizing his mistake. "I mean, _place, _not thing! House. Whatever."

Maisie watched him flounder and shrugged. "Not yet."

Lestrade hummed thoughtfully as he wandered through a store's trinket selections. Then, his eye caught something shiny hidden underneath a stray handkerchief. He picked it up. It was a merry-go-around music box with pretty little horse figurines and a scarlet top with gold trimmings.

"Say, when was the last time we went to that park with the carousel?" He asked, craning his neck to make sure Maisie was still looking at shirts two aisles down. Then he handed the gift to the shop owner to purchase.

"Oh, that old place? It got torn down a year, or two, ago. They're building an apartment complex there now." Maisie answered from somewhere out of sight.

"Oh, shame." Lestrade took the wrapped gift and placed it carefully in the paper shopping bag under the carrots.

"I know, I wanted to take Darren there!" Lestrade straightened up just in time for Maisie to come walking around the corner. "Such a bummer!"

Lestrade smiled thinly at his close call. "Isn't it?"

* * *

They were walking aimlessly down the street now without any particular goal in mind. Lestrade was on the phone with Dimmock.

_"It took a while for me to find it, but yes, I found the things you asked me to look for."_ Dimmock was saying. _"And let me tell you, this isn't easy."_

"Thanks Dimmock. I'll make it up to you, promise." Lestrade grinned.

_"I sent everything I have to your computer, okay?"_ Dimmock sounded hurried.

"You have a date?" Lestrade teased.

_"I do, actually."_ Dimmock reported proudly and hung up before Lestrade could ask 'who with?'

Lestrade shook his head with a smile. "Who was that?" Maisie asked him.

"Oh, Dimmock? Friend of mine with the police. We went through academy together." Lestrade told her.

"And... he's not like, giving you trouble with all this Sherlock business, is he?" Maisie asked him.

"Dimmock? Course not! He worked with Sherlock a few times, he knows that everything in the paper is bull." Lestrade snorted.

"Good. Because if he harrasses you, I'll kill him." Maisie smiled sweetly.

Lestrade eyed her, feigning discomfort. "Okay... I'll be sure to tell him that." Maisie whacked his shoulder light-heartedly and Lestrade laughed. He tapped at his phone and hummed under his breath. "The wonders of technology. You can access the internet on your phone."

"So you noticed that our house phone is still that dinosaur of a thing that was there long before we were?" Maisie snickered.

Lestrade chuckled back as he checked his e-mail. "Seriously, you should get a new one."

"I don't think we can. Don't know if Mum and Dad are up to figuring out how to use it. They don't even know how the microwave works." Maisie replied dryly.

Lestrade stopped and angled the screen of his phone toward her. "Is that a cat?" he asked.

Maisie squinted at the picture of a silver tie pin. "Could be... might be a dog. Or a fox." She straightened. "Why do you ask?"

"It's nothing. Just covering all bases here." Lestrade grunted.

"You know, you're not a cop anymore." Maisie sighed. "I think it's about time you told Mum and Dad."

"I loathe the very idea of it." Lestrade groaned.

"They'll understand." Maisie assured him.

"I know."

* * *

Lestrade sat at the newly dusted off desk in his old room. If he strained his ears, he could hear his parents talking quietly about him and the Sherlock situation. They had been more upset about Lestrade being caught in the media crossfire than the fact that he had lost his job.

He hadn't told them the details but he was sure that Maisie, or Eva, or someone else would tell the whole story. He dropped his head on the surface of his desk. So much for wanting to bring all his friends to meet the family.

He lifted his head and stared at the printed out pictures on his desk. Dimmock had told him he had confinscated these pictures from the journalist Kitty Riley because of 'sensitive information'. Which, in Dimmock-speak, translated to; I do not like you, ma'am, at all. So I will take these pictures away from you. Thank you for your time and cooperation.

There was one picture that caught Lestrade's eye. It was a picture of 221b Baker Street from a street angle. There was graffiti art on a wall at the end of the street that hadn't been there before.

_IOU_

Written in red. Winged in black.

If Lestrade thought very hard about it, he could attest to seeing the graffiti but didn't pay much attention to it. After all, Sherlock had been pointing a gun at John's head at the time.

But there was something familiar about those three letters. Like Lestrade had seen them somewhere else but had always been distracted enough not to pay attention. He rubbed his temple. Come on, it's in there somewhere...

The kidnapping case. The catalyst that had brought about the whole clusterfuck. Lestrade scratched the bridge of his nose. It was right there at the tip of his consciousness. A clue. He just had to find it.

There was a clatter and Lestrade jumped, heart pounding. He swiveled his head around and heard the distinct meow of a cat. He got up and opened the window to peer out.

The black cat stared up at him with sharp blue eyes. Lestrade half expected it to mew out a distinctly feline 'wrong!' Lestrade sighed, shook his head, and closed the window. He knew he was thinking too much when he started comparing Sherlock to a cat.

He stiffened. Window. IOU. Sherlock. Kidnapping case.

He dove for his phone. "Dimmock. Do you remember that there was a complaint of vandalism in the building opposite Scotland Yard? We were talking about how bold those vandals must be? What was spray painted there?"

_IOU_

"Thanks Dimmock."

Lestrade collapsed on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. There was something else, something that he had missed.

* * *

_He was exhausted, and probably looked worse than he felt. Sherlock looked unperturbed by this fact so he must've just come back from Pentonville. He caught a glimpse of something and grimaced in disgust._

_"Sherlock, what is that? That's just gross!" He picked a browning apple up off the coffeetable._

_"It's an apple. Obviously. have you gone blind?" Sherlock snorted primly from his seat._

_"I can see it's an apple. It's a half-eaten, rotted one. Normal people throw rotten food away, you know?" he remarked sarcastically. "And don't play with your food. Either eat it, or don't."_

_"I'm hardly normal. And I'll do what I like with my food, thank you." Sherlock rolled his eyes._

_"Well, suit yourself." He turned the apple over in his hands gingerly and realized that the 'bite' in Sherlock's apple wasn't a legitimate bite at all, but an 'O' carved out with a paring knife._

* * *

_IOU_

Jesus, it's everywhere. How did he not notice it? Lestrade's eyes flickered open and he gasped. His phone was ringing. He picked it up. "Dimmock?" he grunted without looking at the caller ID.

_"Were you expecting him, Sir?"_ A woman's voice asked.

Donovan. Shit.

"Donovan." Lestrade coughed to clear his throat.

_"Don't worry. I won't tell, Sir. Dimmock's not as secretive as he thinks he is anyway."_ Donovan sighed on the other end.

Lestrade pressed his lips together. "Why did you call me, Donovan?" he asked brusquely.

_"Are we on speaking terms now?"_ Donovan asked quietly.

"I haven't quite forgiven you, Donovan, but I can still talk to you fine, thanks." Lestrade snapped. Then he sighed. "Sorry. I'm being an arse."

_"Understandable."_ Donovan replied.

"Why did you call?" Lestrade asked a second time.

_"Like I said, Dimmock's not as secretive as he thinks he is... and- well, I may have found something of interest to you."_ Donovan said. _"I didn't know who else I could call. It's something to do with Holmes."_

Lestrade was suddenly wide awake. "What did you find?"


	60. Puzzling

Puzzling

Lestrade drove back out to London the very next morning and met Donovan at a quiet cafe. They greeted each other, sat down, and placed their orders. They played a very long and uncomfortable game of stare-down before their food arrived but that was all diffused by Lestrade.

"Donovan, relax a little. My spine is aching just looking at you." he rolled his eyes. Donovan sagged a little from her ramrod-straight posture. "See, that wasn't so hard."

Donovan allowed a small, tentative smile. "No, Sir."

"Just Lestrade, Donovan. Let's not have any of that 'Sir' business. I never told anyone, but it pissed me off sometimes." Lestrade took a gulp of his coffee. "You said you found something of interest?"

Donovan nodded in a businesslike manner. "After things started calming down in the office, I was running through reports on the kidnapping case and, well, I remembered that Holmes took a book from the crime scene and we never got it back. That was the moment I missed hearing you complain about him witholding evidence so I went over and got it back." She reached into her shoulder bag and pulled out a Grimm's Fairy Tale book.

"I hope you didn't upset Mrs. Hudson or John." Lestrade frowned slightly.

"No, I didn't even need to go to Baker Street. It was at St. Bart's." Donovan said. Lestrade looked up quickly, they shared a look that said their copper's senses were tingling on a clue's trail. Something that said; is it just a coincidence? Or is it something more sinister?

"And then what happened?" Lestrade asked.

"I also found..." Donovan's hand disappeared into her bag again and emmerged with two ziplocked bags with envelopes inside, one in each. Both standard brown paper with wax seals.

Lestrade took the two envelopes from her and examined them. "I know this one," He pointed at the larger one, "from the kidnapping case. Sherlock found the book in it. Where did you find the other?"

"Also at St. Bart's. The pathologist, Molly Hooper, said John found it at Baker Street." Donovan told him, biting her lip. "It wasn't just a random kidnapping case, was it? It was a part of something bigger."

Lestrade's jaw tightened and he nodded. "I know."

Donovan sighed. "So, come on, spill." Lestrade look at her, eyebrow raised. "I know you haven't been investigating the case since Holmes died and have nothing to show for it."

"Point." Lestrade sighed back. "Just how bad is Dimmock's acting?"

"Let's just say that the only one who hasn't noticed anything suspicious is the Chief Superintendant." Donovan deadpanned.

"Christ." Lestrade groaned. "Is he in big trouble?"

"If he was, he'd have been fired months ago." Donovan told him. "If questioned, nobody saw anything. So, what do you have?"

Lestrade told her about Moriarty's little IOU puzzles. "Only problem is, I have no idea what the answer is." he confessed.

"Maybe it just means... what it means." Donovan shrugged. "Maybe Holmes owed him something and Moriarty wanted to collect."

"Not possible. It's Moriarty we're talking about." Lestrade shook his head. "He'd never let it be anything that simple."

"Maybe it's a code." Donovan suggested. "Maybe it's an acronym for something other than 'I owe you'?"

They sat in contemplative silence. "Not coming up with any acronyms." Lestrade sighed. He took a pencil and wrote out IOU on a napkin. "IOU... substitute letters for numbers?"

Donovan mentally ran through the alphabet. "That would be... nine, fifteen, and twenty-one."

They stared at each other. "Multiples of three?" Lestrade snorted. "Strike out."

"I'll say." Donovan rolled her eyes. "I'd hate to say it, but we're both thinking it." She groaned at length.

"What? That what we really need to crack this case, right now, is Sherlock?" Lestrade guessed correctly. "Cause you'd be right." he sighed. "You know what, since all parties involved already knows Dimmock's involved, let's just call him in." Lestrade said, pulling out his phone. He called Dimmock. "Hey."

_"Hey, Lestrade, need me to investigate something again?"_ Dimmock asked cheerfully on the other end.

"I'm in London." Lestrade told him flatly.

_"That's great! How was your folks?"_

"That's a story for another time, Dimmock. Where are you?" Lestrade rebuffed him.

_"St. Bart's. I'm getting an autopsy report from Dr. Hooper."_ Dimmock told him.

"Well stay there, will you? We'll be right there." Lestrade said and hung up before Dimmock could say 'we'?

* * *

"Molly, lovely to see you again." Lestrade smiled at the pathologist.

"Lestrade." Molly smiled back shyly.

"Donovan!" Dimmock squeaked.

"Dimmock." Donovan retorted as a challange.

"Cool it, both of you." Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Dimmock, Donovan already knows you're helping my investigation of Sherlock."

"The whole division knows it." Donovan added.

"We're wondering if you had anything new." Lestrade said, overriding anything Dimmock thought to say to Donovan.

"If I had something, I'd have called you." Dimmock shook his head.

"So that's it, we're stuck." Donovan groaned.

"What do we have so far?" Dimmock asked them.

"An obsession with IOUs and Grimm's Fairy Tales." Lestrade sighed. "We think the IOU may be a code."

"Well it could be a book code." Dimmock remarked. "Holmes worked a book code in 'The Blind Banker' case."

"Well, it can't be the page, line, and word of a book because that would only be one word." Donovan reasoned. "Besides, I checked it on the way over here, it's a bust."

"What is this 'IOU'?" Molly asked, startling the three investigators. Sometimes it was so easy to forget the girl was there.

"It's just something." Lestrade said casually. "Nothing, really."

"Ah..." Molly looked a little disappointed at not being of any help. "Sherlock called it a 'mental note', but close enough, I suppose."

Everybody stared at her. "Sherlock said that?" Lestrade asked her. "Can you tell me about it? Everything you remember."

"Um, he and John were here investigating the kidnapping case. They were finding out the contents of the kidnapper's shoe. Sherlock said it during that time." Molly told them.

"So something here gave him the hint to decoding this IOU?" Lestrade grunted to himself as he walked around.

"I'm not seeing anything." Dimmock said.

"Wrong, we're seeing things, just not in the way Holmes saw." Donovan grumbled.

Lestrade idly picked up a vial of something and looked at the label. "What if..." Everybody looked at him. "It's a long shot, but what if IOU stood for chemical elements?"

Donovan and Dimmock exchanged glances. "What, like, Iodine, Oxygen, and Uranium?" Donovan asked. "But that doesn't mean anything."

"Atomic numbers, maybe?" Dimmock suggested.

"Which are...?" Lestrade encouraged.

Dimmock coloured. "Science was never my strong suit."

"Fifty-three, eight, and ninty-two." Molly answered helpfully.

"Fifty-three, eight, and ninty-two." Lestrade repeated. Then he paused. "Sorry, no."

"Why not?" Dimmock asked. "Sounds pretty on-track."

"Same reason I struck out on the first time I tried the book code. I doubt there is any sentence with ninty-two words, Dimmock." Donovan said to him as she flipped through the book. "But maybe..." She turned page over page until she reached the index. "There are more than ninty-two fairy tales in this book."

She found the first one. "Snow White."

Lestrade bit his lip and glanced at Molly. The three attempts to kill Snow White. Moriarty's three attempts to kill Sherlock. The poisoned apple. The apple in which was carved the first of three 'IOU's. The Evil Queen ordered Snow White's heart be cut out and brought to her. Moriarty promised to burn out Sherlock's heart.

Snow White 'died' and returned to life. Lestrade wryly wondered if that was also a part of Moriarty's plan or if Sherlock had merely found a better ending for himself.

The second fairy tale was The Strange Musician.

The story is about a violinist who is in search of a companion. Sherlock, obviously. His music attracts three wild beasts, all whom he outwits. One of the three beasts is a fox.

Lestrade looked at Dimmock. "Moriarty's fox pin." Dimmock nodded back.

The third was The King of the Golden Mountain.

"Okay," Lestrade said, "first off, there is a demon who solves people's problems for a price, and a merchant who unwittingly sells his only son to that demon." Everyone stared at him. "What?"

Donovan and Dimmock exchanged glances. "Look, Lestrade..." Dimmock began. "We get that the Strange Musician is Holmes, I mean, he's the eccentric violinist. We get the beast that tries to kill the musician and the fox pin."

"But that's about it." Donovan told him.

Lestrade almost laughed. "You're kidding." Then he stopped and thought about it.

They were not present in the pool when Moriarty and Sherlock had their first official showdown. They didn't know about the three attempts at Sherlock's life. They didn't know that Moriarty promised to burn the heart out of Sherlock. They did not know that Moriarty was a consulting criminal, for all they knew, he was a mad bomber, nothing more. They did not know about Mycroft's involvement with Sherlock's downfall. They did not know Sherlock was alive.

They didn't know anything.

"This all makes sense to you, doesn't it?" Dimmock stated.

"You're not going to tell us, are you?" Donovan chimed in.

Lestrade glanced at Molly who shook her head almost imperceptively. He turned back to his friends. "Sorry, that's a puzzle for another day." He glanced at his watch. "I'd better be going back to Dorset, now."

He stalked briskly back to his car and jumped inside.

But there was more to those fairy tales, wasn't there? In all of those stories, Sherlock was the hero, in the end he always won. The Evil Queens and beasts all died. It was like Moriarty was hinting at his own death.

"Snow White shall die," Lestrade quoted the Evil Queen's words from the fairytale, "even if it costs me my life!"

And the underlining theme of threes. I.O.U. Three letters of the alphabet. Substituted into numbers, they were all multiples of three. Three fairy tales. Three drops of blood on the snow. Three birds weeping over Snow White's coffin. Three beasts try to kill the Strange Musician. Three giants and three nights of torture in the King of the Golden Mountain. Three bullets, three gunmen, three victims. Bullets, gunmen, victims, three unvariables of the situation.

"Ugh." Lestrade rested his head on his steering wheel for a moment.

His head hurt. He didn't know how Sherlock ever did it.

* * *

A/N: No, the IOU theory is_ not_ mine! I tried to figure the IOU riddles out... and failed spectacularly! haha Anyway, I read it somewhere online and just decided to throw it in because it's too clever to not be given a chapter of its own! :P

And, I realize that Lestrade might just have a little too much smarts in this chapter but it did take, let's say, a few months to figure out what Sherlock deduced in about 2.5 seconds flat. Lestrade is no idiot, the best of a bad lot and all, he'd eventually solve cases on his own not by Sherlock's speed or skill, but by his determination. The only reason he calls Sherlock in is because he knows he needs the time to figure everything out... time that potential victims may not have.


	61. Disappointed

Disappointed

The years that followed were slow and almost sluggish. Time seemed to crawl across the earth like a lazy cloud would slip over a city. It was dark, it was cold, and it seemed to stay forever.

John spent nearly every waking moment at the clinic, wondering if Sherlock was coming back soon, wondering if he wanted to come back but was unable to because of some kind of medical injury. Maybe he would be the next patient to be admitted into his office? And every day he was sorely disappointed with the lack of news. A small part of him wondered if he would have been better off never knowing Sherlock was alive. Never knowing that he was out there in the world somewhere, just never coming back.

But he waited, and waited, and waited...

He made new friends, dated a few girls, was never comfortable enough to date a man that wasn't tall, sophisticated, and barely contained genius. He met a girl, though, not exceptionally pretty, but friendly, a really lovely girl. Her name was Mary Morstan. John hadn't been particularly interested in her as a love interest, but she had invited him out for a coffee one day and he had accepted.

He loved Sherlock, always would, but he lost him. Wasn't even sure he'd come back.

But he kept contact with Lestrade.

Every friday night, without fail, he'd get on the phone with Lestrade and just talk and talk, telling stories, rambling nonsense, until one or both of them fell asleep.

Lestrade knew how he felt, just going through the motions, waiting for Sherlock to come back so the world could start spinning again.

* * *

Lestrade spent every day with his family. Cooked breakfast with Beatrice, worked out with Paul, had childish spats with Maisie, learned to fix cars with Peter, and took Darren out to play with Eva and sometimes his father also joined them.

Life was... calm. That was one way of describing it. It was bright and cheerful. Children laughed and played in the park, the wind rustled through the trees, birds chirped like little bells, and Lestrade loved and hated it.

He knew what the problem was. He was bored and itching for action. Everyday, he would work out with Paul and try to burn off all his energy but nothing really worked better than a genuine adrenaline rush like when he would chase down and arrest a suspect.

He had gotten a job at the same car repair shop that Peter worked at, and he was good at it. As a teenager, he loved motorbikes and would fix them up himself whenever they got banged up. Cars were a bit different, but he quickly got the hang of it.

As for his love life... it was fairly nonexistant. Sure, his gaze had followed a few attractive ladies, and a few men, too. He had been propositioned by his junior high school crush and had slept with her a few times, but had politely declined the option of a steady relationship.

He was bored and he wanted action... but not that kind of action.

After work, after everybody went to bed, Lestrade would hole himself up in his room and contemplate his 'Sherlock Mystery Board'. He had learned precious few things about the mystery since the last time he had been to London.

He had learned about the kind of people that made themselves Sherlock and John's neighbors, he learned about the assassination threat against himself, John, and Mrs. Hudson, he learned... practically nothing, if he was honest with himself.

Nothing that he hadn't already known, at least. He powered up his laptop and wondered if he would learn anything new today.

He checked in on Dimmock and Donovan. There were two unread e-mails from Donovan and one from Dimmock. He clicked on the first one from Donovan.

* * *

**_From: Donovan_**

**_To: Lestrade_**

**_Subject: See a pattern?_**

_Two weeks ago, a genius computer programmer went missing, authorities brushed it off as a paranoid family and that the disappeared man in question would turn up sooner or later. Four days after he went missing, his body turned up in the Thames._

_I didn't think much of it until yesterday when we found another computer programmer dead in a dead end alley. Higher ups are thinking he was just mugged._

_I thought it was a bit coincidental, so I did a little searching and ends up either we've got a bunch of suicidal computer programmers in the UK, or they're being killed off._

_At first, it doesn't seem like much of a link to the Holmes case, but that's before I realized that the deaths only started after he died. I thought maybe it had something to do with the computer code Moriarty had._

* * *

Lestrade let out a sigh and frowned before clicking on the next mail, this one from Dimmock.

* * *

**_From: Dimmock_**

**_To: Lestrade_**

**_Subject: Movement_**

_I've been keeping tabs on your suspicious people on Baker Street like you asked and they haven't moved for ages! But they started stirring yesterday._

_One of them slipped away in the night, another is packing up shop, and the other hasn't moved._

_Should I be worried?_

* * *

Lestrade pulled out his phone and texted Anthea. _Movement on Baker Street. Eyes on John and Mrs. Hudson? -Lestrade_

_Haven't left them once. -A_

_Good. -Lestrade_

It wasn't that Lestrade wasn't texting Mycroft because he was trying to avoid him. On the contrary, Mycroft changed his phone number a month or so after Sherlock's death and Lestrade could not get in touch with him except through Anthea. Anthea, wonderfully loyal P.A that she is, told him that it was for security's sake.

Lestrade and Mycroft hadn't met since their fight at the Diogenes Club. Lestrade tried hard not to feel hurt or disappointed by it.

He clicked the second e-mail from Donovan.

* * *

**_From: Donovan_**

**_To: Lestrade_**

**_Subject: Starting to get scared_**

_After I ran out of leads on our mysteriously dying computer programmers, I widened my search to international levels via internet and found out that there have been even more computer programming related deaths all around the globe. This is becoming crazy!_

_What should I do?_

* * *

Lestrade pressed his lips together and e-mailed back.

* * *

**_From: Lestrade_**

**_To: Donovan_**

**_Re: Starting to get scared_**

_Drop the investigation. I'll do a little poking around of my own, if I think it's too big to handle, I'll talk to Mycroft._

_I heard from Dimmock that there have been movements at Baker Street. Keep a sharp eye out._

* * *

Lestrade directed himself to Google and began his search. For the next three hours straight, he sat through countless news reports on dying computer programmers. A few of those names, Lestrade recognized from the list of people Mycroft had important meetings with before Sherlock's death.

He frowned and texted Anthea again.

_What happened in the computer industry? -Lestrade_

_We're investigating. -A_

_Is Mycroft still not talking to me? -Lestrade_

_I believe that he wishes to, but is unable to. -A_

_You must understand, he is in much the same postion as his brother is with Dr. Watson. -A_

_Well, if things change, tell him he owes me a really, really overdue explanation! -Lestrade_

_I'm sure he will not disappoint. -A_

Lestrade sighed and put his phone down. He leaned back in his seat and stretched wearily. Then a thought struck him. They knew that Moriarty's computer code did not exist. Anthea told him that Sherlock told Mycroft so sometime between jumping off of St. Bart's and before disappearing off the face of the earth.

_They_ knew Moriarty's computer code didn't exist. But did the rest of the world?

He thought about it. Mycroft Holmes seemed to be a man with much influence, but if he were to declare that the code did not exist, would his words be taken at face value? Or would people suspect that Mycroft would lie about it to keep the code himself?

Perhaps someone was trying to 're-create' Moriarty's code, not knowing that it never existed. The best computer programmers from all over the world would be gathered in an attempt to creat the code, and perhaps the ones who resisted or did not pull their weight would be gotten rid of?

What if these people succeeded in creating the code? Is that why the assassins felt that it was no more use to stake out Baker Street?

Lestrade frowned and rubbed his temples. He'd drive down to London on the weekend to check up on John and Mrs. Hudson.

* * *

"Okay, you're sure you're going to be alright?" Lestrade asked for at least the third time before he had to go.

John rolled his eyes at his friend. "Mrs. Hudson and I will be fine, Greg. Mycroft's men are practically camped out in my sitting room. Well, alright, they're in the building opposite, but it's essentially the same thing."

"Just... look out for yourself and Mrs. Hudson, alright?" Lestrade said again.

"Yes, Mum." John smiled. "Now go!"

"Call me if anything happens, and I mean, anything!" Lestrade called out as he climbed into his car.

"I'm sure I'll find your phone number on the fridge." John quipped back cheekily. Lestrade grinned and made a rude gesture in reply as he pulled off into the street.

He was glad that it was all just his nerves and paranoia talking. John and Mrs. Hudson were safe. It was a little disappointing, really, he was hoping to at least see John take down a few of those assassins...

* * *

As Lestrade drove out of London back to Dorset, a plane taxiied smoothly into Heathrow airport and Sherlock Holmes walked off the craft.

He planted his tailored shoes into the tarmac and breathed deeply of the damp, polluted London air. He smiled, it was a slow, creeping thing that seemed to gain a will of its own and crawled across his face. A twinkle formed in his eye as he folded his tall frame into a cab.

"To Baker Street, please."

He turned his head to gaze out at the London streets whizzing by.

_The game is on!_


	62. Returning

Returning

John's sixth sense was nagging at him again. He sat and stared at his office door. Every time he had felt his senses stirring, it usually meant that something drastic was about to happen. Lestrade had once humorously referred to it as a 'hyper-militarized Spidey Sense'.

The first time he had ever felt it since meeting Sherlock was when an unoccupied payphone started ringing as he passed by.

The last time was when he rushed to Baker Street with the news that Mrs. Hudson had been shot but realized that it was a lie.

He never really liked when his sixth sense started trying to tell him something that his other five couldn't figure out on their collective own.

But nothing happened during the next five minutes and patients were not going to diagnose and cure themselves so John shook his head and continued working.

* * *

Lestrade woke up with an itch at the base of his skull. He did not like it. Well... not like many people relished the feel of a particularly tenacious itch on their neck.

There were only a few circumstances in which Lestrade felt this itch; when he was being watched, when he felt threatened, ...or when there was a massive disturbance in the Force.

Darren, who had been running around in his little snow boots, eager for snow this Winter, tugged on his pinky finger tentatively with his mittened hands and cocked his dirt-blonde head to the side in an inquisitive way. "Are you okay, Uncle Gweg?" he asked, eyes wide.

Lestrade ruffled his young nephew's hair. "It's alright, Darren." Then, he bent down and scooped the three-year-old into his arms. "Now, where's your Mum, hey? Let's go find her, shall we?"

* * *

Mycroft's fingers tapped rapidly on his mahogany desk, eyes sharp, lips pressed together into a thin line. He held his phone in his unoccupied hand and stared at the little line of text he had recieved five minutes ago.

_Back in London. Be alert, Brother. -SH_

He frowned a little and pulled on a thick coat as he made ready to leave his office for a meeting. It looked like it would snow today.

* * *

Dimmock woke up that morning and stretched languidly. He grinned to himself. It was a sunny morning. No morning was complete without a touch of gold filtering through the curtains.

It was just a normal morning. He got up, tidied his room, washed, changed, ate breakfast, and walked out the door to get to work...

... Only to come face-to-chest with the late Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock only smiled wide, an expression that was all faux-saccharine. "Ah, Inspector Dimmock!" he greeted brightly as if he had never left and was unaware that there was a black marble tombstone with his name on it. "I know that I've been quite negligent with my attentions toward London as of late, I was hoping that you'd be able to tell me where Lestrade has disappeared to? I've dropped by his flat, but he seemed to have moved out."

Dimmock just stared, one hand holding his doorknob with a deathly white-knuckled grip. His mouth opened, but no noise escaped him.

Sherlock smiled back patiently.

"Um..." Dimmock finally squeaked, pale in the face.

"Oh, no. You've got that look..." Was the last thing Dimmock heard.

... Before he passed out.

* * *

That evening, John stumbled back to Baker Street after a long and fufilling day of work. The niggling in the back of his mind still hadn't given up bothering him.

Sherlock stood on the side of the pavement, waiting for John to return. A cold hour-and-a-half after he had taken up his position, he caught sight of the little doctor limping up the street toward him through the lightly falling snow.

He sucked in a breath. The damned psychosomatic limp was back. If anything, it had gotten worse. He wasn't irresponsible enough to believe that it wasn't his fault. Besides, he had heard from Mycroft that John had returned to his therapist.

He saw John's eyes, still sharp and alert after three years of no action, sliding across their surroundings like a soldier taking stock of a situation. They scrolled over Sherlock, froze, and backtracked.

Their gazes met.

Sherlock took that has his cue and pushed himself off the lamp post he had been leaning on and stepped toward his former flatmate, hand outstretched as if moving to touch the man's shoulder.

It was a primitive gesture to solidify the fact that this was really happening. That he himself was here. That John was here with him. At Baker Street. Like three years ago had never happened.

But it had. John broke his gaze and walked right past Sherlock, barely skirting the consulting detective's outstretched fingers. Like he hadn't seen Sherlock at all.

Like he was invisible.

But he knew John had seen him. Why ignore him, then? Sherlock had expected John to be happy to see him, angry too. In no scenario did he predict that John would not react.

He swallowed and lowered his hand, his throat constricted. John didn't believe it was real. He had been inches away from John and yet he hadn't stopped. John saw him, but didn't let on. Which led to only one conclusion.

John was accustomed to seeing Sherlock on the street. John thought he was hallucinating, imagining seeing his dead flatmate, but believing that he wasn't real.

Sherlock rubbed his hand over his face. The return of the psychosomatic limp was not the only reason John had made the decision to go back to talking to his therapist.

"Oh God, John, I'm so sorry." he breathed, voice hoarse.

But John had already disappeared inside the flat.

* * *

John walked into 221b Baker Street and marched up to his flat without even a word of greeting to Mrs. Hudson. He closed himself in his flat and collapsed his weight on the locked door.

He let out a slow breath. That had been Sherlock in the street. He hadn't imagined up his ex-flatmate in months. It had taken all his willpower not to react. His stirring sixth sense must've triggered the hallucination.

He rubbed his hand over his face and it came away slightly damp from persperation. He shook his head. _Get it together, John._ He mentally berated himself as he tossed his phone and keys onto the coffeetable as he shrugged out of his coat and moved about in the kitchen, making a cup of soothing tea.

He just walked out of the kitchen with a hot mug and kicked off his shoes, curling up in his armchair to watch bad telly, when his phone chimed with a new message. He put his mug down on the coffeetable and picked up his phone.

_I know you saw me, John -SH_

John dropped his phone and recoiled as if he had been burned. He stared at the inanimate object lying innoculously on the floor and tentatively picked it back up.

_Who is this? -John_

_You know who I am. -SH_

_Is this some kind of sick joke? -John_

_No it's not. And I'm sorry. -SH_

_This isn't funny! -John_

_You know I would never make a joke of something like this. -SH_

_I'm calling the cops! -John_

John jumped up, face pale, lips trembling as he moved to find Lestrade's number in his speed dial. Nevermind that Lestrade no longer worked with the NSY, when he meant cops, he meant Lestrade. Always.

_Consider it one last miracle, John. For you. -SH_

John froze as he stared at the text. He knew those words. He spoke those words. Alone. At Sherlock's grave. Only a Holmes could've known something private like that without having been there.

His stomache dropped out and he darted across the sitting room and poked his head out of the window overlooking the street, ignoring the pinpoints of grey spotting his vision.

Snow was beginning to accumulate on the ground and John could see the faint outline of a tall, thin man in a Belstaff coat in the light of the street lamp outside. The figure was silent, unmoving, head ducked low, staring at his phone, just a faint sliver of blue scarf peeking out from underneath his collar...

Fighting down the urge to faint, John turned and ran, dropping his phone in the process. He bolted out of his flat, uncaring that he had neglected to close the door after himself. He rushed down the stairs, skipping two at a time and landed hard at the bottom, his knees nearly buckled but held firm.

There was no sign of a limp.

He fumbled with the front door's lock and threw the door open, letting a gust of icy wind inside.

Sherlock was standing a few feet away from the door on the pavement, back toward John. And after so many adventures of following that back, it was such an achingly familiar sight. There was a light dusting of white on the taller man's shoulders and black curls but it was undeniably him.

Without regard to his presently shoeless state, John stepped out into the snow and hesitantly touched Sherlock's shoulder. It was warm and solid under his fingers.

Sherlock turned.

He looked as he had always did, if not, paler and thinner. His quicksilver eyes caught John's and this time they held. "You-..." John's voice cracked a little. "You're real?" he near whispered incredulously.

A pained look seeped into Sherlock's usually neutral expression. "John..."

John registered the pain in his fist before he even realized that he had punched Sherlock. Sherlock's head snapped around with the force of the blow and the man stumbled slightly but kept his footing.

He raised a hand to his mouth and felt the blood beginning to accumulate there. "Alright, I agree that I deserved that one..." he began ruefully.

So John punched him again.

"Ow!" This time, Sherlock went down arse first into the snow on the pavement. "John!" he yelped. "That _is_ concrete, and it _does_ hurt!"

John opened his mouth to shout at Sherlock but the words were lost before they ever found their way off his tongue. He clamped his mouth shut silently and breathed deeply through his nose. Sherlock's expression softened.

"I know that it does not make this whole situation any more forgivable, but I am sorry for what I did, John." Sherlock murmured quietly around the thin fingers nursing his bruised jaw.

They stood and sat in silence for a moment or two before John rolled his eyes Heavenwards and let his eyes fall shut, sighing. Then he extended his hand to his fallen flatmate.

Sherlock regarded him slightly nervously and took the extended hand to help himself up off the snowy ground. He looked down. "Can we go in, John? Your socks have been ruined and I'm sure it's not very prudent to stay out here health-and-safety wise."

John huffed out a breath and nodded. "Course." But neither made a move. Then, after what seemed to be an eternety, John reached upward and cupped Sherlock's face in both his hands and kissed him. The first kiss was soft and chaste, tentative at first, just a press of lips on the mouth, adjusting to the fact that Sherlock was real. That he had finally returned. Then the kisses grew more desperate. They tasted like pain and agony, bitter and angry, John clutched Sherlock's collar in his fist and buried his other hand in Sherlock's curls as Sherlock scraped his teeth over John's bottom lip, one hand circling around the back of his neck, the other on his upper arm like Sherlock was making sure John was really there.

Then they broke apart.

They stood there in the God awful cold, foreheads pressed together, breaths puffing through their parted lips in short pants in the shared airspace. The air tasted like unspoken apologies and forgiveness, both sweet and sorry.

John sniffed, eyelashes tickling Sherlock's cheek. "God, I've missed you."

"Are you catching a cold, or crying?" Sherlock asked in a hushed tone, concerned with all the sniffing going on.

"Shut up, Sherlock. We were having a moment." John chuckled breathily.

"Not good?" Sherlock's arms winded around John's back and hugged him closer. Which suited John just fine as long as he continued shielding him from the chill.

"Uh, uh." John shook his head slightly with a grin. "Bit not good, Sherlock."

"Oh..." Sherlock's mouth opened and closed once before he gave up and rested his cheek on the crown of John's head. "Sorry."

"Okay, Sherlock. But let's go in before we actually catch colds." John huffed. "How long have you been standing out here anyway? It's bloody cold!" He scampered off indoors with Sherlock following and stripped his sopping wet socks off his feet.

They heard Mrs. Hudson move around inside her flat and inquire as to what all the noise was all about. They exchanged glances. "You have the honours, Sherlock." John made a sweeping gesture.

Sherlock grinned back brightly and opened his mouth to call out... "_Mrs. Hudson!_"


	63. Fooling

Fooling

"What happened, Sherlock?" John asked after the two of them calmed Mrs. Hudson down and moved upstairs for a cuppa. Sherlock sat himself in his usual seat and stared at the sitting room window contemplatively. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock glanced at him. "You'll have to be more specific, John. Many things happened in three years."

John rolled his eyes. "At St. Bart's." Sherlock opened his mouth but John stalled him with a raised hand. "And not the 'how', Sherlock, I could care less about that. Why?"

Sherlock looked at him, and then looked away. "Moriarty was going to kill you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade if I didn't jump." he told John bluntly. "I couldn't let that happen. For the first time in years, I asked Mycroft for help and he assisted me in my fall. It was necessary that Moriarty's men believe that I was dead or they would have gone ahead and killed you three. They had you on surveilance for a few weeks after that, to assure themselves that there was no foul play."

"That's why you couldn't let any of us know?" John nodded slowly in understanding.

"Mycroft tried to keep me locked up under the radar but I escaped him. I heard of one of Moriarty's former clients attempting to re-create his computer code..."

"...That never actually existed." John cut in.

Sherlock nodded back. "I'm sure you've heard of the deaths in the news."

"A few of them." John shrugged modestly.

"I had been investigating the case when I had the misfortune to run into Moran in New York." Sherlock shook his head self-deprecatingly.

"Sorry, who's Moran?" John asked.

"You don't know him personally, you'd better know him as a red dot on your chest, or the crosshairs on your forehead." Sherlock growled as he thought of the man.

"Oh..." John bit his lip. "But... it's okay for you to come back now?"

"That has yet to be established." Sherlock shrugged. "I had been moving from country to country, avoiding detection from Moran and Mycroft could never quite catch up to him without complicating things." Sherlock grimaced a little and looked at John. "Now that he knows I am alive, I'm sure it won't be long before he shows up here in London to carry out what Moriarty promised. So I beat him here to set a trap for him."

"You mean, you're setting yourself up as bait." John realized perceptively. "Why am I not surprised? As if dying once was enough." he said dryly. "You _do_ know that fishing never ends well for the bait."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "If there had been any other way out of the situation, I would have taken it."

That said, they sat in silence. Mrs. Hudson appeared five minutes later with the tea. If she had any complaints about not being their housekeeper, she kept it to herself.

Sherlock looked at John, John stared into his teacup. Then John raised his gaze to glance at Sherlock and Sherlock swiftly turned his eyes toward the window. They continued the painfully awkward silence and gaze-tag for a while.

"So..." Sherlock prompted after what seemed to be forever.

"So." John shot back.

"I hear you have a girlfriend." Blunt and tactless. How had John been expecting any different?

"I've had a few."

Sherlock's eyebrows rose. "Oh? And how did that go for you?" he inquired conversationally.

John rolled his eyes. "Well! This is right awkward, isn't it? Considering you were still my _boyfriend_ when you jumped off a bloody roof and _died_!" He crossed his arms with a slight look of accusation. "Where does that leave us, Sherlock? Now that you're back."

Silence.

"I'm not angry at you, you know, John." Sherlock said.

"Three years, Sherlock, I don't think you'd have that right." John retorted, glaring. Then his expression softened slightly. "Mary and I broke it off a few months ago."

Sherlock glanced at John from under his dark curls. "I know."

"Course you knew." John growled. "Did Mycroft send you weekly reports on my status?" he asked snidely.

"No. We never contacted each other once since the year I 'died' until this morning." Sherlock sighed. "I'm sure it took him every scrap of self-control not to look for me. If he had really wanted to find me, he would have."

John took another sip of tea as the silence lingered again. "So." he began, slightly louder than necessary in the silence, Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "You mentioned a trap for Moran?"

Sherlock's eyes glinted with hidden laughter. "It's been three years, John... " For a moment, John thought Sherlock might suggest he sit this one out and was ready to argue. He needn't worry. "You ready for more?"

"Oh God, yes." John grinned eagerly, almost before Sherlock even finished speaking.

Then, Sherlock really did laugh.

* * *

"So, what are we doing here?" John asked quietly as Sherlock and he snuck into an abandoned flat. Sherlock had directed their cab through so many twists and turns that John was fairly certain that he had no idea where they had ended up.

"Take a look, see anything familiar?" Sherlock nodded his head toward the window.

John peered out of the window in question. "But- that... we're at Baker Street?" he gasped incredulously.

"In the flat across the street from our own. Good thing it's been rebuilt since Moriarty blew it up." Sherlock smiled back. "Looks like we've got visitors."

John peeked out of the window again in confusion.

There was a black silhouette standing dark and proud against the curtains. Sherlock's sharp features and curly hair was unmistakable. John gasped slightly and grabbed onto Sherlock's arm to make sure he was still there and not in their own flat.

Sherlock chuckled silently. "Well? What do you think?" he asked proudly.

"Holy shit." Was all John could think to say in reply. He sounded impressed, though.

"Rather like me, isn't it?" Sherlock grinned. "I've got Mycroft to thank for that, he had it made for me. Though I make it a point not to ask him how he convinced someone to do it. The dead and dishonoured don't usually get wax statues made for themselves."

"So, what you're trying to say is that _that's_ what Moran is going to be shooting at?" John asked.

"Yes." Sherlock growled tersely. "But I expected him to make a move at least ten minutes ago." He sounded like a spoiled little boy who's plans wern't going quite as he had meticulously planned them to.

"Relax, Sherlock! Give it ti-...!" John's sentence was cut off by Sherlock smothering his words in a gloved hand.

Both crouched in their hiding place, frozen. Then, they heard footsteps approaching almost silently. A minute later, a man wearing black boots, jeans, and jacket slid into the room like a panther.

Sherlock and John saw him from their spot, but he did not see them in the dark. He crouched before the window and set himself up for his shot at Sherlock's silhouette. John had to admire the man's fluid ease at assembling his gun blind.

There was a faint noise of spitting air and the shrill tinkle of glass breaking and suddenly Sherlock was no longer at John's side. He darted at the assassin from behind and knocked him flat on his face. The man regained his composure quickly and retaliated by swinging his elbow back and catching Sherlock on the chin before flipping them both over, hands like iron closing expertly around Sherlock's thin neck.

As quick as it came, the steel grip on Sherlock's throat was gone and John was standing over them with his gun in hand, having just pistol-whipped the very unfortunate Sebastian Moran. The assassin fell to the floor again and Sherlock scrambled out of his grip, one hand digging around in his coat pocket and reappearing with a personal alarm that the consulting detective immediately set off.

The shrill ringing stunned John and Sebastian for a moment and suddenly the dark flat was lit up and swarmed with police officers.

"Inspector Dimmock!" John exclaimed, staring at the man for a long moment. Then he shook himself. "Sorry, I was half expecting to see Lestrade."

"I couldn't find Lestrade." Sherlock growled defensively.

"He's in Dorset." Dimmock and John told him simultaneously.

"Dorset." Sherlock scoffed. "Why?"

John and Dimmock exchanged glances as a few uniformed cops took Sebastian off John's hands. "Ask him yourself, Sherlock." John sighed.

"I will." Sherlock rolled his eyes. Then he caught a glimpse of someone. "What is _she_ doing here?"

Donovan crossed her arms defiantly. "Here on Lestrade's orders." she replied, her tone challenging but not hostile. "Holmes." She nodded at the consulting detective. "Why am I not surprised to see you alive? The Afterlife not interesting enough for you?" she snarked without malice.

"Donovan!" Sherlock smiled back but it looked more like a grimace. "No more derogatory pet names? Did Christmas come early?"

"You wish." Silence fell between the two of them before Donovan made an apologetic face and Sherlock rolled his eyes before nodding. Then, the sergeant smirked a little and turned on her heel, leaving after the men who dragged Sebastian out. "But don't think this changes anything between us." Donovan told Sherlock frankly over her shoulder. "One wrong move and I'll arrest you for breaking the Laws of Nature."

Reluctant apology given and accepted.

Then, wonder of wonders, Sherlock laughed. "Some people just never change." he said aside to John.

"That has got to be the weirdest non-conversation I've ever observed in my life." John said flatly.

"Just like old times." Sherlock sighed. "Before DCI Meadows..." He made a helpless 'you see?' gesture. "Even when we didn't hate each other, we didn't get along."

"Wait, she said she was here on Greg's orders?" John wondered aloud.

"Lestrade's been in contact." Dimmock piped up. "Told us to keep an eye on Dr. Watson. He never quite stopped being a cop, looks like."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Never quite stopped-... What do you mean?"

Dimmock and John exchanged uneasy glances.

Sherlock glared. "Where's Mycroft?" he positively thundered.


	64. Saving

Saving

The first thing Sherlock shouted at Mycroft when he saw him was, "Mycroft, how _dare_ you!"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Sherlock, can we please cast aside our personal discrepancies for a moment..."

"Myc-... _no_!" Sherlock glared mightily. "I _need_ Lestrade, Mycroft! As an Inspector! I refuse to wear in another officer! Couldn't you have pulled strings?" he whined petulantly.

Mycroft stopped his younger brother's tirade with a raised hand. "Yes, Sherlock, I could've pulled strings to keep Gregory on the police force. No, I chose not to. Too dangerous, in the circumstances. If he so wishes, I will put him back in his rightful place immediately. Now, will you let me speak without interruption?"

Sherlock glared but nodded. John wisely kept his amusement at Mycroft's 'In his rightful place' comment to himself.

"Good, because a team of Moran's men have been deployed to 'take care' of Gregory. Your little stunt in Baker Street has sent some of Moran's men into a tizzy. Unfortunately for them, Dr. Watson and Mrs. Hudson have been under watch since your return and Gregory is the next best option. Shall we go?" Mycroft said so very casually.

And yes, the weather is lovely, isn't it? How is your health brother dear? Much of this went blatantly unsaid.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Alright, lets go. But I'm not sharing a car with you, Mycroft."

"Oh, God forbid." Mycroft sighed with half an eye-roll.

* * *

Sherlock had been silent for the first half of the trip to Dorset, fingers steepled, occassionally blurting out random things that probably made more sense in his brain than when he said it aloud. John had taken to ignoring them by now.

The consulting detective seemed, in his own unique way, nervous about facing Lestrade.

"I'm fine, John." Said consulting detective growled.

"I wasn't saying anything." John held up his hands in a placating gesture.

"You were thinking it." Sherlock retorted.

"Alright. I might as well ask. What's the deal with you?" John asked him.

"Nothing's wrong with me." Sherlock snapped.

"That's not what I asked." John lobbed back coolly.

Silence. Then Sherlock let out a sigh. "It's..." Sherlock suddenly broke off. "Stop listening, Mycroft." he told the car's interior in general. The headlights of the car behind them blinked twice. Satisfied, Sherlock returned his attention to John.

He seemed lost in thought for a moment before speaking. "You know, John, when I met Lestrade, my first long-lasting impression of him was of his disappointment in me." he told his flatmate.

"What...?" John frowned, a flare of anger growing in him.

Sherlock seemed to read his thoughts and shook his head. "Not the negative sort of disappointment in me, John." he assured him. "I was-... I was a mess when I met him. I did drugs, broke into crime scenes, got into trouble... Mycroft had to bail me out of jail at least once every week."

John snorted, he could imagine that.

"And Lestrade... he was so disappointed, almost angry at me for it. He told me that he believed I was better than all that, that I was wasting a valuable talent. He always had such high expectations of me." Sherlock shook his head with a slight chuckle. John remembered Lestrade's words to him about Sherlock being a good man. "He always naively expected so much, and I always disappointed him. Every single time."

"I lied to his face, did drugs behind his back, insulted him, sometimes I would even attack him in my drugged state." Sherlock blew out a breath. "I guess... I didn't want him around me. I didn't want his help, I hated being dependent on anybody. I did my bloody hardest to chase him off. He'd badger me and annoy me about my bad habits, he irked me to no end."

"I can imagine." John smiled a little.

"I tried so hard to get rid of him, but he's as tenacious as a bulldog with a bone, sometimes." Sherlock shook his head, snorting with amusement. "Me and Mycroft, we threatened him, got him fired from his job, got him kidnapped, nearly killed, gave him no privacy, drove him up the bloody wall sometimes. God, we were so eager to get rid of him."

"But he stayed, always. He got me clearance to the morgue, got me off drugs, gave me cases, ... in a way he saved me, you know." John nodded at Sherlock slowly. "No matter what I did, no matter how much I disappointed him, he always stayed around... if only to make me listen to him complain out of spite." Sherlock huffed out a laugh, remembering something amusing.

"I remember when Mycroft and I told him it was dangerous to be friends with us. We were in the hosptial, Lestrade and I had been kidnapped and separated, Lestrade had been locked into a well that slowly filled with water and drowned him. He very nearly didn't make it. But - um - he did. And we told him that as long as he was with us, there was always the chance of him getting kidnapped again and killed for real. And he just nodded and said 'Okay, thanks for the warning.' We couldn't believe it." Sherlock chewed his bottom lip. "We couldn't believe that someone could be that stupid."

"We started getting used to him being around, being his stupid and annoying self. And then Mycroft, stupid idiot, fell in love with him. I think it was because it was the first time someone normal like Lestrade treated us like friends... like eccentric idiots. Most people usually make an effort to either treat us like freaks or try to pretend that we're 'normal people'. He never did any of that, and he never gave up on us. It was... new." Sherlock pressed his lips shut like he couldn't quite fathom what he just said.

John had the feeling that their talk was still half unfinished but realized that Sherlock wasn't going to speak any more anytime soon. So he let it go and thought about everything Sherlock had told him. It was the most Sherlock had ever spoken about himself, especially of his relation to Lestrade.

They did not speak for the remaining stretch of the journey, which was seven sorts of awkward, but they made it to Dorset eventually.

John practically jumped out of the car Mycroft loaned them to breathe. Sherlock was already out of his seat and obvserving the two-storey house they pulled up in front of.

Mycroft approached John. "Gregory is a friend, Dr. Watson." he said slowly, making certain that Sherlock did not see them conversing. "The only person, besides our own mother, who accepted us as our... eccentric selves. The first person who we could honestly regard as a 'friend'. He always believed in Sherlock, always helped him when he needed it..." Mycroft pursed his lips contemplatively. "I think Sherlock has grown to fear the day when he disappoints Gregory for the final time. I don't think he knows what he'd do if Gregory left us for good."

Mycroft's expression turned grim. "He has subjected Gregory to a good many unforgivable situations, Dr. Watson, but he has never faked his own death. He worries that this time he may have gone too far for Gregory's forgiveness." John nodded grimly in understanding. "Not that he'd ever admit that."

Just then, the house's front door opened and a woman walked out. "Evening." she greeted cautiously.

She was an elegant woman, despite her casually plain attire, her eyes were a sharp blue and her hair a pale blonde. She was tall and thin, but the way she carried herself spoke volumes of a strong and sophisticated woman.

"Excuse me, is this the residence of Gregory Lestrade?" John spoke up politely.

"It is." the woman replied curtly. "And you are...?"

"Um, I'm John Watson, that's Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes." John introduced them all.

The woman cast an appraising look toward the three visitors. "I have heard much about you, Dr. Watson, and Mister Holmes, though I expected the younger Holmes to be in a casket in the earth." she remarked coolly.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Is Gregory in, ma'am?"

"I'm afraid he's not. He's at work." the woman replied. "I am his mother, you may call me Beatrice, or ma'am, or Mrs. Lestrade, whichever suits your fancy."

A round of meek 'ma'am's came from the men.

Suddenly, there was a thunder of running footsteps and a younger woman with stringy blonde hair dashed out to join Beatrice. "Oh my God!" the woman exclaimed. "You're Sherlock Holmes! I thought you were dead!" She marched up and shook Sherlock's hand firmly. "I'm Maisie, hi." She turned to the two other men. "You must be Dr. Watson, I read your blog!" She grinned, shaking John's hand. Then she moved on to Mycroft. "You must be the mysterious Mycroft Holmes. I've heard alot about you, some good, some bad. I think Greg's still mad at you but he won't confess why." Then she released Mycroft's hand and stood back, expression expectant.

Stunned silence. John randomly thought of the Flash.

Mycroft coughed. "A pleasure to meet you, Maisie." He smiled, just enough to be polite.

"Oh, you must be thinking I'm a weirdo. But it's okay for you to think that, because I am." Maisie smiled brightly at them. "I am, after all, Greg's sister."

"Oh..." A look of understanding. "Well, it's very nice to meet you."

"They're looking for Gregory." Beatrice informed Maisie.

"Of course they are, who else are they going to be looking for!" Maisie enthused. "Come on! I'll take you to him."

"Maisie, darling, Gregory's working." At her daughter's pleading look, Beatrice relented. "Alright, but on your head be it."

"Course, Mum!" Maisie gestured for them to follow her. "But you have to tell me what's going on on the way! Why are you still alive, Sherlock?"

* * *

"Greg! You've got visitors!" Maisie hollered over the noise of rumbling engines and sparks as she confidently strode into the local car repair shop with the air of someone who belonged there.

"Who is it?" Lestrade's voice rang out from somewhere out of sight. John did not miss the way the two Holmeses stiffened slightly.

"It's a surprise!" Maisie sing-songed back gleefully.

Then, there was an animalistic growl and the three visitors turned to see the most ferocious-looking German Shepherd baring its canines at them. John noticed that it lacked a limb and hopped along on the other three to get around. Still, at a disadvantage, the dog showed spine.

"Down, boy!" A voice called out sternly. The dog paused as if contemplating not obeying the commanding voice, and finally slipped its lip back over its teeth. It still glared at them, if it was possible for a dog to do so. Well, if a cat can smile, there was no reason for a dog not to glare. "Can you spoil me the surprise?" A young, hairless-faced man attached to the voice asked with a charming smile.

Maisie opened and shut her hands a few times, arms extended, in a childish 'gimme!' gesture and the man humored her by walking over to give her a kiss and a brief squeeze. "Visitors, Peter, my husband. Pete, John, Mycroft, and Sherlock." Maisie introduced everybody.

"Sherlock, John, and Mycroft as in-...?" Peter trailed off inquiringly.

"Yes, and we would really appreciate if you showed us where Lestrade is." Sherlock said impatiently, near bouncing on the balls of his feet. They were, after all, here to prevent a threat on Lestrade's life.

"Oh, Greg's over there." Peter jabbed his thumb over his shoulder.

Maisie gave her husband one last peck on the cheek and led the three Londoners and the vigilant guard dog over to where Peter indicated. "By the way, the dog's name is Mal, short for Mallory. She was-... Holy _shit_, Greg!" The woman exclaimed when she saw two men lying unconscious on the concrete ground, hands tied together behind them with a wire, one of them was bleeding from what looked like a dog's bite marks. Mal snarled at them, then turned her face away as if they were not worthy of her attention for any moment longer. "Annoying customers?" Maisie ventured sarcastically.

"How rude, Maisie." Lestrade's voice came from somewhere under a raised car, only his legs could be seen sticking out from underneath. "Is it the cops? Because if it is, they've got better response time than before. I haven't even called those men in yet. By the way, did the mutt maul the visitors? She's been a bit edgy since the assault."

"Greg..." John voiced slowly.

All noise of tinkering under the car immediately stilled, Lestrade's lower body went tense. Everybody could imagine him peering at their feet, looking at their shoes...

There was the sound of wheels rolling slowly over a grainy surface and Lestrade's head appeared. His expression was unreadable and his cheek was smudged with grease. His hair, no longer combed down, stood up in nearly every direction giving him a sort of boyish charm. His faded jeans and dirty white tank-top did nothing to hide a rather healthy-looking set of muscles. Mycroft forced himself to look away.

Lestrade looked from Maisie, to John, to Sherlock, to Mycroft... and held for a moment. There was the faintest hint of bitterness in his gaze before he returned it to Sherlock. Sherlock held his breath.

"I see you're back, Sherlock. Hand me that wrench, will you?" Lestrade requested, off hand. Baffled, Sherlock did so. "Ta, mate." And Lestrade rolled himself back under the car.

Tinkering resumed.

Stunned silence. "You knew." Sherlock deduced.

"He did." Mycroft said.

"We _all_ did." John hummed thoughtfully.

"You _did_?" Both Holmeses exclaimed simultaneously, staring at the doctor.

"Yeah, I forgot to tell you, with all that was going on." John grimaced sheepishly.

"You told him?" Mycroft asked the legs poking out from under the car.

Lestrade rolled back out to glare at him. "Course I did, Mycroft. Just before I moved over here."

Awkward silence. "Well, so much for the element of surprise." Sherlock blurted, uncomfortable.

Lestrade saved the situation by rolling his eyes with an amused smirk. "Right, just let me finish up here and we'll head back to the house for proper introductions, okay?"


	65. Awkward

Awkward

Ceramic teacups clinked and shifted on saucers like music from a glass xylophone. Paul coughed uncomfortably, Eva and Peter fidgeted, Beatrice was a picture of serenity but it was Maisie who broke the awkward silence.

"So..." Every eye in the room turned to her. "why do I get the feeling that you're more upset at Mycroft, than Sherlock, Greg?"

Lestrade just shrugged. "Don't be ridiculous, Maisie." Maisie raised her eyebrows challengingly, Lestrade glared back, and his sister childishly stuck her tongue out at him.

"I hear you're a doctor." Eva blurted to John before the silence could overtake them again.

"Eva was a nurse." Peter smiled encouragingly.

And just like that, conversation bloomed around the Lestrade sitting room. Eva and Peter were talking to John and Maisie, Paul, and Beatrice were talking to Sherlock about his adventures during the three years he had been gone.

Which left only Mycroft and Lestrade.

"So, how have you been?" Lestrade asked slowly, sipping at his tea.

"Very well, thank you." Mycroft replied politely. "Peter tells me you are quite the mechanic."

Lestrade shrugged modestly. "I do my best."

"And next thing you'll know, they'll be talking about the weather." Sherlock said idly to Maisie. Both Lestrade and Mycroft looked over at them. "Oh, don't mind us, we're not talking about you." Sherlock said sarcastically.

"Not at all." Maisie agreed unabashedly.

Lestrade rolled his eyes, then he turned back to Mycroft. "Speaking of which, I was going to ask you, where's Anthea? She didn't tag along?"

Mycroft shook his head. "Unfortunately, I was forced to leave her in London to take care of... things."

"Ah." Lestrade grunted flatly. "But, let's be honest, she refused to come because of all the excess snow." He nodded his head at the frosting window.

"She hates it." Mycroft agreed grimly. "The streets are icy and her stilletos are no shorter for it. Let's just say that the outside world is a dreary place for her right now and I was forced to suffer my brother's company alone."

Sherlock snorted. "See, there's the weather talk."

Maisie giggled. "Greg? I like your friends." Then she stood up. "I'll be right back, I just need to check on the scones Mum was making." And she disappeared into the kitchen.

Lestrade jumped up the moment she left their sights. "No offense to her, but I don't trust her in the kitchen alone." And he sidled off after his sister.

"He's going to make a break for it." Beatrice announced serenely as she took a graceful sip of her tea. "You might want to go after him if you need to talk." She said to the room at large, but everybody knew she was talking only to Mycroft.

Mycroft stood and strode out after Lestrade. The last thing he heard from the sitting room conversations was Eva urging Darren to try to say 'Sherlock Holmes' and got an adorably baffled 'Home?' in reply.

Maisie didn't even look up from the oven she was crouched in front of. "Ran out the back door." She said, waving vaguely in the direction of the still swinging door.

Mycroft walked out to find himself in a lovely little garden and saw Lestrade disappear hurriedly through a gate beside a row of rhododendrons. There was an empty kennel nearby and Mal was loping loyally by Lestrade's side. It had been a bit of a surprise to hear that the dog belonged to the Lestrade family and not the garage owner.

Mycroft frowned a little, berating himself on his own negligence as he propped his umbrella up across one shoulder and pursued slowly, testing the waters.

"Gregory." he called out to the man walking away from him, trying to ignore him. Lestrade didn't reply. "Are you just going to refrain from speaking to me for the rest of your life?" Mycroft asked, tone forcibly light.

Lestrade threw a rude gesture over his shoulder and continued walking.

"Not that I can blame you." Mycroft sighed back.

Suddenly, Lestrade hopped a little, ripping one of his shoes and socks off his feet, then the others. He tied the shoelaces together and draped them over his shoulder, stuffing his socks into their respective shoes. Mycroft walked after him, confused.

They reached a small stream and Lestrade rolled up his jeans a little before he stalked through the ankle-deep water to the other bank, obviously intent on losing Mycroft. Mal sniffed conteptuously but followed for fear of being left behind. Mycroft just walked on his respective side of the stream until he found and bridge and crossed it.

"As I was saying, I realize that you have every right to be upset at me." Mycroft said, falling into step a few feet behind Lestrade again. "And I really am sorry for trying to make you lie about Sherlock to John. I should have honestly known better."

Lestrade turned his head a little just in time for Mycroft to see him roll his eyes in high profile. He crossed through the stream to the other side again. "Yep, you should've." he grumbled, mostly to himself, but Mycroft heard it.

"And I can only apologize for it." Mycroft called out to make sure Lestrade could hear him. "I don't know how else to make it up to you." He reached a bridge and crossed over the stream. "Can you please say something, Gregory?"

Lestrade stopped and whirled around angrily. "Oh, so _now_ we're on speaking terms again?"

Mycroft blinked blankly. "Excuse me?"

"You don't contact me after Sherlock's death, I track you down at the Diogenes Club, we have a row, you change your phone number, Anthea says it's for security, and when I try to get a message through her to you, you don't respond. I'm _so_ sorry I misunderstood the situation and thought you didn't want to talk." Lestrade inhaled a large breath at the end of his rant. "And then you have the audacity to suddenly _waltz_ back into my life as if nothing had happened. You want me to talk to you now, and it's sort of sending mixed signals."

Lestrade glared, Mycroft stared back, startled. Mal, possibly sensing her friend's hostility, curled her lip back and growled low in her throat.

Mycroft swallowed. "I'm sorry."

"You know, Mycroft, I'm kind of tired of you saying that. 'I'm sorry this' and 'I'm sorry that'. It doesn't really mean anything now." Lestrade had a weary look about him. When Mycroft didn't immediately respond, he turned and began walking again.

Mycroft followed.

"Stop following me." Lestrade growled without looking back.

"No." was Mycroft's curt reply.

He heard Lestrade sigh and sensed him roll his eyes in exasperation. "Why not, Mycroft?"

"Not until you tell me how I can make things right."

Lestrade snorted. "Easy, Mycroft. You don't."

"I'm afraid that is also not a very pleasing option." Mycroft sighed.

"And _I_ get no say in the matter?" Lestrade asked wryly.

"Please, Gregory." Mycroft said. "You must know how much devastation a Holmes may cause when they lose a friend."

Lestrade stopped and turned again. "Yeah, because Sherlock faking his death and you disappearing from the face of the earth was a very clever ploy to subtly 'keep your friends closer'." he scoffed sarcastically.

If Mycroft had anything to say in reply to that, he kept his council to himself guiltily. "Would you try to punch me if I apolgized again?" he asked finally after a pregnant pause.

"Probably." was Lestrade's clipped reply as he trotted off across the stream again. "You're not exactly on my favored list right now."

"Then, what would you have me do?" Mycroft asked him with a slight exasperation in his voice.

"I don't _know_!" Lestrade called back, annoyed. "You're the genius, you figure it out."

Mycroft was silent for a long time as he walked and crossed over to Lestrade's side of the stream. Lestrade, feeling slightly stifled with their proximety, as far as it was, moved to distance himself. "I could tell you that I'm sorry, and that Sherlock's disappearance was necessary-..."

Finally, it was too much for Lestrade and he whirled around in the middle of the stream, flicking little droplets of water. "But we've already been through that, haven't we?" he shouted angrily. "And I've already made it _very_ clear what I think about that."

"Yes," Mycroft retorted, raising his voice a little, "and I would spin a lie so well that any lesser man would forgive me instantly!" He continued ranting over whatever it was Lestrade was about to say. "And a man of my position would _have_ to be a glib speaker to be competent at his job and I am well versed in the art of lying and manipulation. But I _am_ aware that you are _not_ a 'lesser man', and have you _ever_ _once_ considered the possibility that I have no idea how to handle such a man other than offering my most pathetic apologies?" Mycroft questioned heatedly.

"Well of course I haven't!" Lestrade was quick enough to retort, foot splashing in an honest-to-God stomp. Like an immature little boy. "After all! You're the Great Mycroft Holmes with a 'minor position in government', you're the Iceman, the politician with a quick and clever quip ready for every situation, you got yourself into this mess so you can damn well get yourself out of it!" he 'harrumph'ed stubbornly.

There was a prolonged moment of silence in which the two remembered, in the privacy of their own minds, that they were civil and mature grown-ups who should not shout and stamp their feet like spoiled children.

That was Sherlock's job.

The tense anger spilled out of their shoulders and fisted hands hung open as they stood in awkard silence and calmed themselves. Mycroft was the first to speak.

"Please. I need you to tell me, Gregory," he said humbly, walking down the bank to stand by the water's edge. "how I can make it up to you. Because I honestly don't know what to do..." He gestured toward the empty space between them. "I don't know how to fix this. And _please_ don't tell me that I can't."

Lestrade was silent for a long moment. "Alright, explain, why the sudden radio silence?" he finally asked.

Mycroft tensed almost imperceptively, then relaxed in resignation. "I was... afraid." he admitted slowly. Lestrade raised his eyebrow. "If a man like Moriarty would kill Mrs. Hudson, Dr. Watson, and yourself simply because you are Sherlock's friends, I couldn't bear to think what_ my_ enemies would do to you if they knew you were mine."

"And cutting off all ties with me would resolve this problem?" Lestrade asked dryly. "I don't know if you've noticed, Mycroft, but I know the risks. I knew them when I first became your friend."

"That was still when I thought your friendship was pleasant, but still unessential. True enough, there was a great risk and I went through great lengths to keep it at bay. It would've been very unfortunate if something befell you, but Sherlock and I would've moved on." Mycroft pursed his lips. "But... then I realized that this isn't about keeping you safe for Sherlock's sake anymore." he intoned slowly.

Lestrade stared in silence, wondering what reaction was socially acceptable in a situation like this. Really, what was he supposed to say in reply to that?

He settled for immature teasing. "_Ha!_ Sentiment!" He crowed suddenly, and very loudly, pointing at Mycroft as if proving a point. "I _knew_ you had it in you somewhere!" he allowed a goofy grin.

Mycroft stared for a moment in startled silence, then rolled his eyes in exasperation, but there were a few faint tugs at the corners of his mouth. "I was trying to be serious, Gregory." he said in a long-suffering way.

"Alright. ...Um, thank you?" Lestrade responded, more as a question.

Mycroft huffed out a short laugh and averted his gaze almost sheepishly. "I'm sorry. I'm afraid I've made things very awkward."

"Yeah." Lestrade grimaced. "So, you didn't-..."

"No." Mycroft shook his head quickly, cutting him off. "I would never." He fidgeted with his umbrella handle.

Lestrade nodded back, gazing intently at his submerged bare feet. "...Good, because I was beginning to think - um - that you... hated me." Their gazes met, Mycroft's horrified, and Lestrade's sheepish, and they fell into a fit of awkward chuckles. "Just know that all future attempts to sever contact with me to protect me will not be appreciated."

"Duly noted." Mycroft grinned a little at his own stupidity.

"So..." Lestrade prompted, kicking at the shallow water pooling around his ankles. "...what happens now?" Between them, he meant.

The truth was, Mycroft did not know. But he remained staunchly obtuse on the matter.

"Well, I know that Sherlock will demand you return with us to London and to your former postion as Detective Inspector of the New Scotland Yard, John will hope eagerly for someone to help him handle Sherlock, I'm sure your mother, at the very least, will wish you to stay, and I will agree with whatever you decide." he told Lestrade. "You have the tie-breaking vote, Gregory."

Lestrade sucked in a breath, and released it slowly. "Can I think about it?" he asked.

"Of course, I would hate for you to make snap decisions about something so serious." Mycroft nodded thoughtfully, then his eyes flashed humor at Lestrade. "Now get out of that freezing water, Gregory, before you catch a cold."

"Yes, Mum." Lestrade rolled his eyes.

"Oh, no." Mycroft shot back, a sly glint in his eye. "Save all that for Beatrice." Lestrade scowled at him. "I'll tell her." Mycroft threatened at his hostile look.

"You wouldn't dare." Lestrade growled back.

Sum it to say that Beatrice made Lestrade feel like a scolded six-year-old boy again by the end of the night.


	66. Undecided

Undecided

Sherlock ambushed Lestrade the next day on his way to work with Peter and Mal. He seemed very understanding of the whole situation and even responded to Sherlock's insisting that he leave immediately with a wry 'good morning to you too, Sherlock'. Nevertheless, Sherlock won out in the end and Peter told Lestrade that he would take Mal and meet up with him at the garage.

That left Lestrade and Sherlock standing in the middle of the street with children milling about trying to get to school.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow with an unimpressed 'Really? Not criminals, not spies, ...school children, Lestrade.' look. He cleared his throat, opened his mouth noiselessly, and closed it. "I need a work contact in the NSY." he said ruefully as if he had just admitted something embarrassing and walked away. He had said everything he needed to say.

Don't misunderstand, Lestrade would take the condensed version anyday. Knowing Sherlock, he could've ranted on for days on how he deduced that Lestrade was bored out of his mind with his present situation by the scruff on his left shoe, or how he was itching for cases if the state of his right jeans pocket was anything to go by.

Lestrade shook his head and continued on his way. Yes, he was glad that Sherlock kept it short. Eight words short. Lestrade stopped walking. Sherlock hardly ever passed up the chance to flaunt his knowledge or to show off his deductive abilities unless John or Mycroft gave him great incentive.

_Mycroft._

Lestrade snorted, shook his head, and continued walking.

* * *

John was next in making his bid. Though, in his defense, Lestrade helped him to it. They met up for lunch later in the day to talk and catch up. Lestrade innocently asked him how the other coppers at the Yard were holding up.

John gave him a look that said he knew what Lestrade was doing and performed accordingly. "They're good. Actually, it was Inspector Dimmock who helped out in arresting Sebastian Moran." John smiled. "Donovan was there, too."

Lestrade let out a chuckle. "Did they take the news of Sherlock being alive well?"

"Oh yes!" John laughed. "Apparently, Sherlock showed up at Inspector Dimmock's flat earlier, before he showed up at Baker Street, and took care of things. The poor bloke stared, fainted, woke up, and after that, everything was alright."

"Good old Dimmock!" Lestrade laughed. "And Donovan?"

"Threatened to arrest Sherlock for breaking the Laws of Nature." John deadpanned.

Grins broke out on their faces and they both fell into fits of laughter.

John calmed his giggles down first and sent Lestrade a pointed look. "I think they really do miss you, though, Sherlock too." Lestrade raised his eyebrow. "Yep. He threw a fit, blew up at Mycroft, and demanded you be rounded up and herded back into your office immediately."

Lestrade snorted. "Right."

"I think he would never admit it to you face, but it _is_ true." John shrugged. "I've got witnesses."

* * *

"Have you come close to making up your mind, Gregory?" Mycroft asked that evening when he stopped by the house for tea.

John and Sherlock were out exploring rumors of a haunted house with Peter, Maisie, and Paul. Eva was out taking Darren for a walk. Beatrice was in the kitchen preparing dinner.

"Um, dunno, yet." Lestrade shrugged back, taking a gulp of his tea. "Sherlock and John have put up fair arguments as to why I should return to London, Sherlock especially, what did you do to him?"

Mycroft smiled enigmatically. "Trade secret."

A beat. Then, Lestrade put his cup down. "Is this the moment where you make your own suggestions?" he asked.

Mycroft shook his head. "Like I've told you, Gregory, I will stand by your choice." His phone chimed in his pocket and he pulled it out to read a text. He rolled his eyes. "Excuse me, it seems that I must cut my visit short. I turn my eyes away for five minutes and Whitehall is in shambles." he huffed in exasperation. He stood up to leave and Lestrade walked him to the door. "And, Gregory, do make up your mind quickly, our current abode in the hotel down the road does not have a roof big enough to house both me _and_ my brother." he warned with a long-suffering sigh.

"Of course." Lestrade chuckled. "Should I walk you back? Or can you find your own way?"

"I believe I can manage on my own, thank you, though, for your kind offer." Mycroft replied.

Lestrade shrugged "Alright then, evening, Mycroft."

"Good evening, Gregory." Mycroft smiled back politely.

Lestrade returned to the sitting room, gathered all the used dishes onto a tray and carried them very carefully into the kitchen. He sniffed. Beatrice was making shepherd's pie. Yum.

Beatrice spared him a glance as he carefully placed his load of dishes in the sink and began washing. "Has Mycroft gone home?" she asked.

"Yep." Lestrade nodded absently as he scrubbed a teacup with a soapy sponge.

"I like that young man, Mycroft." Beatrice remarked. "Such good manners, makes you wonder how Sherlock turned out his polar opposite."

Lestrade laughed. "Oh, they're not so different when you get to know them. Same love of theatrics, gigantic brains, the meddling... Mycroft is the British Government, did Sherlock tell you?" Lestrade asked. "He has power over practically every electronic within the country and then some. The insane bastard."

Beatrice leaned against the kitchen counter and watched her son's back thoughtfully. "Sounds like a horribly complicated man."

"He's an onion." was Lestrade's quick and endearing reply. Then he snorted out a laugh. "Sorry, inside joke."

"How did you two meet?" was Beatrice's next question.

Lestrade paused, pulled his hands out of the sink and wiped them on a dish towel as he turned to look at his mother suspiciously. This was beginning to sound like that time Beatrice found out about Lestrade's first date as a boy and had interrogated him about the girl in question. "Through Sherlock." he replied warily, Beatrice raised her eyebrow. "Mycroft kidnapped me, I pickpocketed him, he got me fired from my job, and I helped Sherlock break into Thames House in retaliation... that about sums up first impressions."

Beatrice's other eyebrow rose. "Interesting." she said flatly, "My son helped a then-drug addict break into MI5."

"Don't worry, Mum," Lestrade said in his most trustworthy tone, "I signed the Official Secrets Act."

"How exciting." Beatrice drawled in a dry tone that was all Lestrade. "Are you going back? To London, I mean." she asked him.

Lestrade shrugged. "I don't know yet."

Silence overtook them for a few prolonged moments. "I think you should." Beatrice said finally.

"Really? Do you really think so?" Lestrade asked back. "I mean, I thought you would be the one hoping hardest that I didn't."

"Don't misunderstand me." Beatrice told him, pushing off the counter and placing both hands gently on the sides of her son's face. "Of course I want you all to myself like any self-respecting doting parent, and I worry about all the danger you are constantly in, being a law enforcer." She sighed and placed a soft kiss on his forehead. "But never doubt that what I want for you - more than success, more than security - is for you to be happy with your life."

"I am, Mum." Lestrade insisted.

"No, what you are is happy with someone else's life; Maisie has a wonderful husband, Eva has a healthy and beautiful child, and Peter and Paul are very lucky men." Beatrice sent him a stern look. "Now stop bumming off their happinesses, and go find your own." She winked at him. "Don't think you can hide evidence of your ongoing investigations from me, young man, you are a copper, and I despair that you will always be." She smiled, giving his cheek one last pat before removing her hands from his face. "And whatever you decide, Gregory, I am proud of you."

"Speaking of which, I need to get rid of the evidence of the investigation, I feel like some of the stuff in there is stuff I'm not actually supposed to have clearance to." Lestrade smiled and rolled his eyes. "And I'm not gone yet, Mum."

"Not yet, no." Beatrice hummed in agreement. "But still... mother's intuition." She tapped her temple with a thin, elegant finger and a knowing look.

"Touche."

Lestrade decided that there was something strangely admirable about a mother who knew more about what her son wanted than he did.

* * *

That night, Lestrade stopped by Paul and Eva's house and was somehow coerced into reading Darren a bedtime story. As per usual, Darren fell asleep halfway through the story and Lestrade closed the story book.

He pulled Darren's covers up over his tiny blue Donald Duck clad shoulders and tucked a corner under the boy's chin. Then he patted the boy's head and dropped a goodnight kiss into his bird's nest-smelling hair. "Ah, I'm going to miss you, kiddo. But don't worry, I'll be sure to visit for Christmases and birthdays, and Halloweens because I'm an awesome Godfather like that." he assured the sleeping boy. "Sleep tight, Darren."

He stood up and turned to see the boy's parents standing in the open doorway.

"Be safe, Greg." they said.

* * *

The next morning, Lestrade showed up at the hotel where the Holmes siblings and John were residing temporarily. The same day, he put in his resignation at work. That night, Maisie had a fit like she hadn't had since she was six, of course, it lasted all of five minutes before she shrugged and made him promise to visit. She was a bordering bi-polar like that.

A week later, he was walking through the threshold of his previous flat in London, reclaiming his home.

He dropped his duffle bag in the sitting room and threw himself onto his new-old couch. A few minutes later, he got up and made himself a cup of tea. Not a surface was dusty even after three years, and not a thing out of place.

Which, to a normal person, would seem odd considering the fact that Lestrade had been quite certain he had packed everything up in a storage facility when he moved to Dorset. But, he was not a normal person. He sent a 'thank you' text to Mycroft.

* * *

Three days after that, he was back in Scotland Yard with the box of personal belongings that he had packed when he was dismissed but had never really gotten around to unpacking until now.

He went in search of Dimmock and found the DI snoozing at his desk, slouched in his chair, feet propped up on his desk. Lestrade glanced at his watch. Dimmock was sleeping on the job. This called for punishment.

He picked up a paperweight from Dimmock's desk and dropped it lightly on the sleeping man's belly. Dimmock wheezed out a breath with a slight twitch to his eyebrows but did not wake. Lestrade stifled immature giggles.

He gingerly removed the paperweight and carefully replaced it with the small desk lamp from Dimmock's desk. Dimmock continued snoring. _Oh God, this is childish, I should **not** be doing this._ Lestrade thought to himself as he balanced an open casefile on top of the lamp like a slanted roof. He sensed Donovan walk up beside him and stood back as she gingerly piled an inverted and empty newspaper cone from a nearby fish-and-chips stand on the top of the tower.

Lestrade gave the Tower-of-Copper's-Desk-Paraphernalia the last touch of a banana peel. Evidence of Dimmock's late-morning snack. One of the other officers walked by, giving them strange looks so Donovan hung last night's styrofoam coffee cup on the banana peel to hide it.

They stumbled back, giggling quietly like children. "God, how has he not woken up yet?" Lestrade wondered aloud in amazement.

As if in reply, Dimmock let out an embarassing snort mid-snore and the tower wobbled. Donovan couldn't stifle a shrill laugh quick enough and Dimmock began stirring.

"Mgh, what the f-...!" Dimmock let out a startled cry and there was a loud crash, the two guilty cops immediately dashed off in opposite directions.

Lestrade poked his head out of his office door and didn't even try to conceal his laughter as Dimmock stared at him in bafflement. He closed the door on Dimmock's indignant shouts just as his phone began ringing.

He pulled it out and saw Mycroft's ID. "Hello?"

_"How are you faring, Detective Inspector Lestrade?"_ Mycroft's voice smiled warmly.

Lestrade glanced at the security camera and smiled as he watched Dimmock struggle to pick up all his fallen things. "Not sure yet, Mycroft." he admitted. "But I think I'm going to be alright."

_"I am glad to hear so."_


	67. Welcoming

Welcoming

Lestrade showed up on his first official day back at work to the pleasant surprise of a small 'welcome back' party with a few close friends and officers. There was decent coffee, doughnuts, and a promise of drinks later that night at the pub before everyone went their separate ways to work.

There was nothing very interesting going on that day, mostly paperwork. Lestrade, curious about the details of his returning to work after being so dishonourably discharged, investigated a little and found out that he had been simply 'reassigned' to Dorset... by Mycroft.

Besides, the truth would make New Scotland Yard look even worse in the public eye if they knew that the higher-ups had fired one of NSY's finest for working with a completely legitimate consultant who had helped the police solve hundreds of cases that would've been otherwise dropped.

So, Lestrade had been reassigned to Dorset and was called back. Simple as. That's what the reports said so it _must_ be true. No matter that it was news to _him_.

It was interesting to find out that, while stationed in Dorset, he had been assigned to work with DS Hanaway, who he knew from the local pub, under the supervision of Chief Superintendent Harris, who was a close friend of the late DCI Bates and knew Lestrade as a rebellious teenager who once stole his cap and gun.

_Huh._ Funny how small the world is. Good thing he hadn't really been working for Harris, he'd have had his revenge for the theft from years ago.

A noteworthy point; about a year into his reassignment, Lestrade had been investigating a bombing case and had the suspect cornered in his own garage. Backup was called in as well as a K-9 unit to sniff out more bombs. The suspect took his own life with a bomb, taking out a K-9 and his handler. While Lestrade, who had been near the explosion, had been lucky to only need a few stitches, the K-9, Mallory, lost a leg, and her handler, Kenneth, lost his life. Lestrade had taken in the newly retired Mallory.

Lestrade huffed at Mycroft's efficiency in writing up his record during his period of semi-retirement. He even found out how he got his dog. Although, the report said he was working the case personally, not that he was helping DS Hanaway with the case as an outside source of help.

There was a difference. A small one. ...No, he was definitely ordering DS Hanaway around when they found the suspect with the bombs. _That_, Lestrade could not deny. It was a habit that he had never really grown out of. He was more surprised that DS Hanaway was going along with it. It was probably a habit that _he_ hadn't quite grown out of either.

He put his file away and pulled up Sherlock's.

By now, the public knew that Sherlock was not a fraud, they had grown a slow and reluctant acceptance of the fact. He was still the 'Internet Detective' and had hundreds of thousands of online fans. The only reason the people were so slow to accept that he was legit was probably because they liked the idea of a scandal.

And now, Sherlock was back.

The newspapers were covering the story already and it went a little like this; Moriarty was real. Sherlock was not a fraud. Because of the threat Sherlock caused him, Moriarty discredited him with the help of a journalist that will remain unnamed... and her name is not Kitty Riley.

Really. It's not.

Sherlock did not die, that was an elaborate ruse to shake Moriarty off his tail. Sherlock had, in fact, gone into witness protection. Now that Moriarty and Moran were out of the way, he was back.

Simple as.

Lestrade snorted a little in amusement at the simple explanation. If the people only knew...

Just then, Donovan poked her head inside his office and mentioned something about a dead body. Lestrade decided it was time to drop by Molly's.

* * *

"Inspector!" Molly exclaimed with a pleasant smile. Then the smile dropped away from her face in mortification. "Oh! No! I mean-...!"

"It's alright, Molly." Lestrade grinned back at her. She'd never get it right. But it was good to know that some things would never change. "You can call me 'Inspector' again."

"What, really?" Molly's cheerful mood reared back up. "You're back with the police? Oh, I'm so happy for you!"

Lestrade nodded. "Yep, I moved back to London, too." he told her. "Looks like everything's going back to the way it was."

Molly smiled shyly. "Y-yeah... it's almost like a dream come true. I mean, with Sherlock back, and all. ...A-and you, too, of course! Welcome back!" Lestrade just chuckled at the flustered woman.

Donovan cleared her throat pointedly and reminded them that they wern't exactly here to catch up. Oh, yeah... that's right. Case.

He wrapped up the case a few hours later, said goodbye to Molly, and decided to drop by Baker Street after his shift ended. He wanted to see if John had killed Sherlock in annoyance yet. And if they hadn't reached that stage yet... even better.

Maybe he'd even have time to make popcorn.

* * *

"Gregory!" Mrs. Hudson greeted cheerfully at the door. "Come in! I heard you moved back permanently!" the little lady enthused.

"Yep, back with Scotland Yard, too!" Lestrade smiled back, inwardly a little pleased that Mrs. Hudson had not returned to calling him 'Inspector Lestrade', he kind of liked Mrs. Hudson calling him Gregory. Maybe Sherlock would remember his name better that way.

There was a thunk and a shout upstairs.

"Oh, they're at it again." Mrs. Hudson tutted, then she smiled softly at Lestrade and patted his arm. "All my boys are back again."

Lestrade just smiled back bashfully, not knowing what to say in reply.

"They're probably fighting about that awful explosion Sherlock caused yesterday, they'll be at it for hours." Mrs. Hudson shook her head with an expression bordering on satisfaction. "Come, let's have tea while they sort everything out. How are your folks? You said little Darren just started learning how to talk?"

And she led him into the downstairs flat. They had tea and Lestrade's favorite cinnamon doughnuts and talked until John grew bored of arguing with Sherlock and came down to join them.

Then, they started watching a quiz show on TV until one of the questions reminded John that Sherlock hadn't watched Star Wars yet and they forced Sherlock to come down for a movie marathon... just the three, though... not the prequel trilogy, the other three.

They watched until Mrs. Hudson excused herself to go to bed early in the last half of The Empire Strikes Back. John fell asleep at the beginning of Return of the Jedi, at which point, Lestrade could no longer persuade Sherlock to stay and watch so they stopped the movie.

Lestrade cleaned up Mrs. Hudson's dishes and the sitting room while Sherlock took John upstairs and Lestrade stuck around just long enough to ensure that Sherlock would not blow anything up before going to meet up with a few of the other lads from the Yard for drinks.

* * *

In the car, stuck at a red light on the way back to his flat a few hours later, Lestrade recieved a 'welcome back' text from Anthea that was no less than fifty words long. It was hard work reading the entire thing on his tiny mobile screen, but the traffic signal wouldn't turn green until he finished so he was left with no other choice.

It seemed like Anthea desperately missed having someone to complain to about Mycroft. In a twisted sort of way, it made Lestrade feel loved.

Although, she really did seem pleased to have him back in London so that was okay with him.

* * *

By the time he got home, he was exhausted. He stumbled through his flat, forwent a shower in favor of just kicking off his shoes and barely managing to change into his night clothes before dropping into bed, and found a crisp white card on his bedroom nightstand with Mycroft's elegant writing on it.

_Welcome home, Gregory._

He pressed his lips together, fighting down a pleased smile. He was quite amazed at how just a written word from Mycroft could make heat prickle just so at the back of his neck. He placed the card back onto the nightstand and turned out the lights.

He was asleep even before his head hit his pillow.


	68. Insane

Insane

Lestrade stood in the doorway of Baker Street's kitchen with a lukewarm cup of tea, sipping occassionally for appearance's sake, but not tasting it, if the decidedly distant look in his eyes was anything to go by.

Knock, knock? Nobody's home!

He had the look of a tired parent who specifically told his children not to mess around in the kitchen only to come back five minutes later to find that, as usual, they hadn't listened. He had the look of a man who wanted to be anywhere _but_ here.

He had the urge to beat his head on the wall... violently. It's a unique little thing-of-an-urge that simply won't leave him alone over extended periods of time. He supposed it would get to him at least twice a day, if not, more. He felt like he should ask John whether he should see a therapist about it. But he doesn't, because if he does, John would realize that it's actually a reasonable idea and they'd both get stuck in the therapist's waiting room every Wednesday or so... or, with his luck, Thursday. He hates Thursdays.

"Holy _shit_! Sherlock!" John yelled, running around in a panic. "Put it out, _put it out_!" 'It' being on fire at the moment. Whatever 'it' was.

Sherlock dashed by in pursuit of John. "No, John! You can't put the fire out yet!"

"Is the experiment measuring how long it takes for the flat to burn down?" John shouted back testily.

"No!"

"Then put it the _sodding Hell_ out!"

Lestrade rubbed the bridge of his nose, giving the brewing migrane some sort of relief. He liked being back, really, he did. He just forgot how insane everything and everybody was.

He turned and retreated into the kitchen only to walk face-first into a gigantic grizzly bear. A stuffed one, mercifully, but a bear nontheless.

"Oh my, God!" Lestrade shouted reproachfully. "_Sherlock!_"

He vaguely wondered why there was a bear in the middle of the kitchen and how Sherlock got it there. The bear's mass was quite decidedly greater than the size of the kitchen door.

Sherlock poked his head in. "What?"

"A bear." Lestrade said blankly.

"Astute observation." Sherlock remarked. "And?"

"A bear. In the kitchen. What the actual fuck?" John, who was crowding behind Sherlock, was nodding emphatically. Obviously, the fire crisis had been taken care of and they now had more important things to concentrate on.

"A few years ago, it was a severed head in the fridge." Sherlock said, deadpanned.

A beat, then Lestrade looked at John. "God help us, we actually think he has a valid point."

"I know, right?" John said incredulously. "I was thinking the same thing just now. Was living with Sherlock always this crazy?"

"I stored human body parts in the fridge, shot the walls, and skewered pigs with harpoons." Sherlock shrugged. "For science. You'll get used to it again in no time."

John looked at Lestrade. "_That's_ what the Tube Incident was about?"

"I told you I didn't want to get involved." Lestrade grimaced back.

"And they didn't have a shower or a sink at the butcher's?" was John's next question.

"The killer would've gotten away." Sherlock shrugged. "I needed to inform Lestrade about my findings posthaste."

Lestrade just stared at him. "And you didn't have a phone to text me with?"

Sherlock stared at the Yarder with such condescension. "And get blood all over it?"

"Sherlock, if you took the time to think about it, it _is_ the lesser of two evils." John grimaced at his boyfriend.

"Not to me." Sherlock shrugged apathetically.

Lestrade just sighed at John. "If we're seen on the street together," he pointed at Sherlock, "I don't know this guy."

John snorted. "I know the feeling."

"Anyway, what did you want?" Sherlock asked Lestrade irrately.

"I came to offer you a case, but I saw you were busy with your fire."

"I'm not busy now." Sherlock dusted off his hands on his familiar blue robe like a little boy hastily cleaning his dirty hands on trousered thighs.

"You _are_ busy." John disagreed. "You're not going on cases unless you clean up this mess!"

"Bu-"

"No 'but's. There's a mop in the kitchen, get it." John said sternly.

Sherlock turned up his nose, brushed by Lestrade to get into the kitchen, clambered around the bear, and returned with two halves of a mop. "Sorry." he said unapologetically. "The bear sat on it on his way in."

"What are you, five?" John groaned.

"I'm sure Mrs. Hudson has a mop." Lestrade threw in his two cents. Sherlock rolled his eyes and slunk away. Lestrade turned to John. "Well, I'll come back later sometime. Good luck, mate."

John just whimpered back.

* * *

"Hey." Lestrade looked up to see Dimmock poking his head through the door. "You busy?"

"Staving off a Holmes-induced headache, but I think I'll live." Lestrade grunted. "Sherlock has a bear in his kitchen, did you hear?"

Dimmock nodded. "Donovan told me after one of her friends from dispatch responded to a fire threat."

"And then there was that." Lestrade sighed, rolling his eyes Heavenward. "How is this my life?"

"Maybe you were a horrible person in your past life." Dimmock shrugged.

"Well, _something_ had to have caused it." Lestrade groaned back. "Anyway, did you need something?"

"Um..." Dimmock trailed off. "I have a problem."

"What kind?" Lestrade asked him.

"The kind I wouldn't be able to trust anybody else with." Dimmock procrastinated.

"Just spit it out." Lestrade growled, already reaching over and grabbing his pen and a report that needed to be written.

"Well, it's a girl problem." Dimmock finally blurted out.

Lestrade dropped his pen, staring at his long time friend. "You _do_ know that I'm divorced and haven't dated in years."

"I'm not asking for advice." Dimmock persisted.

"Then get out!" Lestrade rolled his eyes, getting out of his seat and physically turning Dimmock around by the shoulders and pushing him out of his office.

"No, I-..." The office door slammed in his face. "...like Molly Hooper?"

There was a crash of something being accidentally dropped, it sounded like Lestrade's coffee mug. The door opened again. "Say what?"

"I. Like. Molly. Hooper." Dimmock enunciated slowly. "Alot."

Lestrade looked like he wanted to slam the door in his face again. "And?"

"And, well, I-..." Dimmock flushed suddenly. "Actually, forget it, this was a bad idea."

Lestrade dropped his head into his hands. Molly was a sweet girl, and Dimmock was a decent man. There was really no reason for this not to happen. "Dimmock, just get it out. Come on, get it out of your system."

"I was kind of hoping to get your... blessing?" Dimmock grimaced at the unreadable look Lestrade was sending him.

"What?" He just wanted to understand. And he was trying. Hard.

"Blessing." Dimmock said again.

"Sorry, why would you need my blessing?" Lestrade asked, rubbing his temple with a thumb, his headache coming back twofold.

"Well," Dimmock fidgeted again, scuffing his foot on the floor. "you're like an unrelated older brother to her, I think. And I know she doesn't have a Dad to get blessings from." He stopped and grimaced. "I've always done things on tradition."

"I-... You-... That-..." Lestrade gave up and sighed heavily. "This is 'Make Lestrade Lose His Sanity' week, isn't it?"

"I'll have you know, that my affections for Molly are pure!" Dimmock managed to say before Lestrade's office door slammed in his face once again.

Donovan walked in five minutes later. "So, Dimmock and Hooper." were her opening words.

Lestrade whimpered into his crossed arms on his desk.

"Oh, don't be like that. You should be acting like a proud father." Donovan smirked.

Lestrade raised his head. "Die, Donovan." he croaked. "Die in a fire."

"If it makes you feel any better, I broke up with Anderson." Donovan said nonchalantly.

"Good for you. I was wondering why I haven't seen him around." Lestrade smiled weakly.

"I may have kneed him in the crotch, too." Donovan continued. "Twice."

"Ow," Lestrade winced. "as a man, I can only forgive you for that because you're one of my best mates."

"He was being rude about it." Donovan shrugged. "I think it was justified."

"I trust your judgment."

"He may have filed an assault charge on me." Lestrade's head jumped up.

"Did it get anywhere?"

"Not at all." Donovan smiled smugly.

Lestrade grinned back. "_Now_ I'm feeling like a proud father." he joked.

"I learned from the best." Donovan smiled back.

* * *

This life and these people were crazy. Lestrade realized fondly as he walked out of the NSY. They were the craziest, stupidest bunch in the whole bloody circus, but he was a part of it.

A car pulled up on the street beside him and power, insanity, and charm personified powered down the window. "Coffee, Inspector?"

Lestrade shrugged. "Sure, where'd you have in mind?"

He did absently think that any other man, faced with such a proposition, would run down the street screaming bloody murder. But, one man's insanity, is another man's... well, whatever this was.

Lestrade just smiled to himself. He could live with it, it wasn't such an insane notion.


	69. Violent

Violent

_"Captain!"_

John flinched in his sleep, curled up in his armchair in the sitting room.

_"Watson, get over here! Ah, God! Shit!"_

Another muscle twitch. This, time, Sherlock noticed. He frowned.

_"Leave him, Watson! We've got no time!"_

John's right hand fisted and his eyebrows dipped inward.

_"Leave him! There's nothing you can do!"_

Sherlock reached out, having seen quite enough. "John..."

John heard Sherlock calling out to him, overlapping the shouts of the superior officer of his unit. The moment Sherlock's hand came into contact with John's shoulder, the ex-military man's eyes popped open and he grabbed the offending appendage, instinctively flipping Sherlock hard onto his back on the floor.

Sherlock's breath was knocked out in a heavy 'whoosh'. Both gasped, blinking, stunned.

"Um..." John croaked, quickly releasing Sherlock's wrist as if it had been on fire.

"Yes, quite." Sherlock replied uneasily, pushing himself to his feet and brushing himself off.

"What-..." John began asking, eyes wide and slightly confused.

"You were having a nightmare." Sherlock told him grimly. "I moved to wake you, ... and wake you did. Obviously."

John opened his mouth, then he closed it. "Jesus." He rubbed his face. "Not a really good idea, Sherlock." he said unnecessarily.

"Noted." Sherlock replied, eyebrow raised.

"Just throw something at me next time." John suggested. "Something that won't break."

Sherlock just nodded silently. It was one of those unspoken rules right up there with 'Don't ask Mycroft about the umbrella'. Sherlock never asked, and John only told when he wanted to.

He turned to return to his previous spot by the window when John spoke. "I had a friend once." Sherlock stopped and turned back. "In the military."

"'Had'?" Sherlock asked.

John nodded. "He's - um..." He swallowed. "He's dead."

Sherlock mulled over that small piece of information for a moment before nodding. He would take what he was given.

* * *

"Alright, what've we got here?" Lestrade mumbled, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. He checked his watch; it was four in the morning.

Donovan yawned a few feet away from him, looking a little worse for wear. "John Doe, looks kidnapped from his home, he's still wearing his pyjamas and no shoes. Forensics say he was forced to his knees, facing the wall, one shot to the back of the head."

"Sounds like some kind of military execution." Lestrade grunted. "No ID on our victim?"

"No, I call him 'John Doe' for fun." Donovan rolled her eyes. "I need a coffee."

Lestrade snorted as he watched the forensics snap pictures of the crime scene. "Ditto."

Donovan looked grim. "Are you going to bring the 'Dynamic Duo' in on this case?"

Lestrade shook his head. "I think that's the last thing I want."

Donovan nodded. "Same here."

They stared down at the blood and gore.

* * *

The sun was hot on his face, he was careful to manuver around behind their mark so as not to cast a shadow and give his presence away.

Belly-down on the cooking sand beside him was the unit's resident sniper, Joseph Kelly, Joey for short.

Sweat was dripping down his face and neck and John was certain he was in no better appearance. He grinned at his friend. "Needing a little sun-block, there, Joey?"

Joey self-consciously rubbed the reddish skin on the bridge of his nose with a gloved finger. "I burn easy. So what? I'm half Irish."

John laughed back.

There was a sharp _'zing!'_ a few meters away from them. Joey smirked. "Looks like our cover's blown. Bloody useless to stay down now."

He propped his rifle up onto a stand and with fluid movements, chambered a bullet. A second and half a heartbeat later, he pulled the trigger. The zingings stopped.

"And that's one mark down." Joey hummed to himself in satisfaction as John motioned for them to return to the jeep where they had left their look-out.

"That was one Hell of a shot." John smiled.

"It was, wasn't it?" Joey sent back a goofy grin, half proud of his accomplishment, half abashed at the praise. Joey slid into the driver's seat and John climbed in the other side before peering into the back seat where the third soldier was scowling at the heat. "You know, I think you'd have made a half-decent sniper with your marksmanship scores."

John shook his head as the jeep leapt forward, spitting up gravel. "Thanks, but I'd rather stay a medic, Joey."

_Blam!_ The sound of a tire popping never sounded more menancing before this.

The car surged sideways and Joey shrieked out a string of curses. The jeep fishtailed violently and bounced off the trail before hitting a rather sizable stone and flipping over several times before coming to a stop on its roof.

John let out a groan and blinked through the red haze. "Urg... Joey?"

He heard footsteps walking along the side of the car, not the heavy crunch of military boots, but the softer 'paf, paf' of sneakers. Not friendlies.

"Joey?" he whispered harshly to his friend.

_'Bang!'_ John whipped his head around so fast that he felt the muscles in his neck strain. Their third man stared back at him, dead-eyed, red blooming out of the side of his head. The window he had been sitting against was shattered from the gunshot.

"Fuck!" John fumbled for his own gun as he scrubbed the blood away from his eyes. "Joey!"

Joey was staring forward, eyes wide, face frozen in shock. He'd never make another expression. John swallowed down screams and bile.

Then gunfire chattered outside the vehicle and John waited for death.

_Please God, let me live!_

_Crunch!_ Sand and gravel gave way under the pressure of boots, a familiar sound that followed John and the other soldiers everywhere they went.

"Captain? Captain!" Someone called out. Black boots planted outside the car door and began kicking against the mangled door to get it open and then firm hands were grabbing him by his bulletproof vest and dragging him out into the hot sun again...

* * *

Sherlock threw the Union Jack pillow at John.

* * *

"Another one?" Dimmock asked when he poked his head through Lestrade's office door.

Lestrade nodded grimly as he stuck another victim's picture up on the murder board with a magnet. "Yeah." He pointed at the first victim. "Randall Kenswick, military man, general, no less. He's got no police record, everybody he's ever met thinks he's a saint."

"Except for the guy who put a bullet into the back of his brain." Dimmock said dryly.

"Yeah." Lestrade pointed at the second victim. "Major Terrance Dunwhite."

"Let me guess," Dimmock interrupted, "military man, no police record, and everybody he's met thinks he's a saint."

"Hm, yes, and no." Lestrade consulted a file on hand. "Military man, no police record, but only because no charges were filed against him. He's been in his fair share of fist-fights and pub brawls." He snapped the file closed. "Not so much saint."

"Same execution style?" Dimmock asked.

Lestrade shook his head. "Sniper rifle picked him off the street. Damn good shot, too."

Dimmock sat on a corner of Lestrade's desk. "Any suspects?"

"None yet..." Lestrade trailed off, looking troubled. "None, technically say, local."

Dimmock raised his eyebrows. "What do you mean?"

* * *

"Oh, Gregory! It's so nice to see you! We haven't seen you around recently!" Mrs. Hudson cooed and clucked like a mother hen. "You need to stop working yourself so hard, look at these eyebags!"

"No need to point them out, Mrs. Hudson." Lestrade whined back.

"Sherlock's just upstairs, usually he's at the morgue at this time, but he's been staying in these days." Mrs. Hudson told him as they slowly ascended the stairs leading to the upper flat.

"Why? Is he okay?" Lestrade asked her.

"Sherlock's alright, I think it's more John who needs to be worried about." Mrs. Hudson shook her head sadly. "Poor thing, he's having nightmares again."

Lestrade swallowed and surreptitiously hid the casefile he was holding behind his back. "I thought they were getting better, did something trigger them?" Then, he thought better of hiding the casefile behind his back and folded it into his jacket pocket.

"They were getting better but then they just came back for no reason that John's spoken of yet." Mrs. Hudson shook her head again. "Did you come for Sherlock's help on a case? I think they could use a distraction."

Lestrade shook his head. "I just came by because I haven't been here in a few weeks." he lied. "Just wanted to see if they've killed each other yet."

They entered Sherlock and John's flat just in time to see John lunge at the detective, knocking them both to the ground hard, hands iron-gripped around Sherlock's neck.

"John? _John!_" Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson rushed into the room and grabbed John's shoulders, futiley trying to pry him off the detective.

The military man didn't seem to have even heard Lestrade shout.

_"At ease, soldier! That's an order!"_ Lestrade bellowed in his best riot-control voice and hoped to God that John wouldn't question it.

That seemed to do the trick. John froze, then let go of Sherlock, stumbling backward in shock. "Oh my God..."

Then, John did something he had only ever done after Sherlock's Fall.

He broke down and cried.


	70. Twisted

Twisted

Sherlock stumbled back a safe distance and rubbed his neck. He looked to Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade like he didn't know what to do with a crying man, and knowing him, he probably didn't.

He scraped his bottom lip with his teeth and looked at Lestrade. "Do something." he almost hissed.

The two men looked at Mrs. Hudson. "I'll go make some soothing tea." The woman told them. "You two calm him down some." And she left.

Lestrade and Sherlock remained. They exchanged glances, Sherlock nodded insistently toward John with an expression saying 'you're a cop, you handle these things alot, don't you?' and Lestrade's gaze shot back 'you're his boyfriend!' Sherlock frowned, Lestrade raised his eyebrows. 'Please?' Sherlock's expression pled. Lestrade sighed and gave in.

He wasn't entirely sure what to do, he had seen John cry after Sherlock's supposed death, but he had never lashed out. He knelt by John's side and called out softly to him. "John? John, mate, can you hear me?"

John gave a little choke/cough/sob, and nodded.

Lestrade slowly, tentatively, reached out his hand, wondering if John was going to panic if he touched him. He gently laid his hand on John's shoulder, vaguely feeling like he was putting his hand in a rabid dog's cage. John did not react. Lestrade mentally heaved a sigh of relief.

"Hey, John. Can you sit up for me, please? We're just going to need to get onto the couch again, Mrs. Hudson's making tea." He kept up a string of murmured nonsense as he slowly guided John back onto the couch he had started on before attacking Sherlock.

"Can you tell me what happened?" Lestrade asked him.

"I-I..." John hiccuped. "D-didn't know."

"You didn't know what?"

Here, Sherlock interrupted. "He was sleeping. I presume he was having a nightmare and when I came to wake him up, the present situation and his dream overlapped."

"I-I thought-..." John sniffed, shaking.

_I thought you were an enemy._

Nobody said it, but Sherlock flinched and Lestrade grimaced, John continued sobbing.

"It's okay, John." Lestrade hummed soothingly, rocking the poor man, something he picked up from watching Eva comfort Darren when the boy thought there was a monster in his closet. "You're okay."

Mrs. Hudson returned with tea but it was several more minutes before John had calmed down enough to hold the cup without being in danger of spilling or dropping it.

By that time, Sherlock returned to his habit of melding himself into John's side as if attempting to merge their two bodies. And though John was usually a bit annoyed at Sherlock getting in the way of what he was doing, or just feeling indulgent enough to let him do as he pleased, John seemed grateful for the proximety.

An hour later, Lestrade needed to get back to work so he left John to Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson.

He sighed to himself and tried to think up new leads on his case

* * *

Lestrade stared through the one-way glass into the interrogation room where the man was sitting. He didn't fidget, he didn't sweat, almost never blinked. Lestrade timed it. Fifteen minutes between blinks. He didn't even think it was possible.

Lestrade was beginning to feel that this was a horribly bad idea.

He let out a heavy sigh and left he observation room to enter the interrogation room. There was no way he could out wait _this_ sniper.

Sebastian Moran removed his gaze from the tabletop in front of him where his hands were cuffed and raked his eyes up Lestrade's body from toe to head. Their eyes met and held. Neither looked away, no signs of blatant hostility, nor submission from either side.

Lestrade blinked, it was like playing stare-down with a reptile who didn't have any eyelids.

"Sebastian Moran." Lestrade broke the silence.

"Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade." Sebastian greeted back coolly.

Lestrade pulled out the chair opposite Sebastian and sat down. Sebastian leaned forward. "Let me guess, you need my help."

Lestrade inclined his head. "Why do you think that?"

"Why else would you be here?" Sebastian shot back with a shrug. "But, what makes you think I'll help you?"

"I can get you off death row."

Sebastian blinked for the first time since Lestrade entered the room. "And why would I want that?"

Lestrade staunchly refused to show that he was caught off-guard by that question. "I was under the impression that you wanted to live." he replied flatly.

"Life's not fun inside a jail cell, Detective Inspector." Sebastian sighed. "I'd rather you either let me out quick, or speed up my date with death."

Lestrade blinked, Sebastian stared back with those shark-eyes of his.

"I'll tell you something interesting." Sebastian said. "And this information is on the house."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "I'm all ears."

"Moriarty isn't dead."

"Fuck you."

Sebastian laughed, showing a little spark of expression for the first time. It was just a slight pull at the corners of his mouth, a tiny glimpse of teeth, and exactly one crinkle at the edge of his right eye. Lestrade got the feeling that Sebastian was not a man who was accustomed to showing emotion.

"Believe what you want, Detective Inspector." He resumed his stoic expression. "But you've thought it too, you've wondered why he chose Molly Hooper to get close to Sherlock."

"Why are you telling me this?" Lestrade hissed.

"Because I held up my end of the contract, and he didn't." Sebastian shrugged. "I'm a little pissed." But under that cool exterior, Lestrade caught sight of a tiny spark of resentment.

"He died."

"Did he?" Sebastian asked, raising his eyebrows. "You have a body on ice in the morgue, but is it really His?"

Lestrade held his gaze and for once, Sebastian blinked first. "I'm not here to talk about Moriarty."

"But I am." Sebastian replied simply. "I don't want leniency from the Law. I want revenge." He gave a pointed look at the casefile in Lestrade's hand. "Let me take a wild guess. Victim number one; General Randall Kenswick. Shot in the back of the head, execution style. Murder weapon was a Browning L9A1 like Dr. Watson's. Victim number two; Major Terrance Dunwhite. Shot by a sniper rifle, L129A1. Both standard army issues."

"So this_ was_ Moriarty's planning?" Lestrade tossed the casefile on the table, a few sheaves of paper slipping out of the brown cover. "Give the man a prize."

"There's going to be three more deaths if you don't stop him." Sebastian said. "If you don't let me help you stop him."

"So you're just going to help me for free?" Lestrade scoffed. "Why should I believe you?"

"I'm not helping you for free." Sebastian snapped back. The first show of impatience. "I'm helping you to get revenge on Moriarty. And you should never underestimate the power of vengance."

Lestrade tapped his finger on the table in contemplation.

"Alright. Start talking."

* * *

Sherlock was sitting in his armchair, knees brought up close to his chest, hands folded over them. John watched him from the kitchen. There was a mild bruise growing on Sherlock's neck. He shuddered.

_I could've killed him._ He clenched his jaw. _He just wants to help._

"I can hear you agonizing all the way over here, John." Sherlock's voice called out from the sitting room.

John walked out of the kitchen, gripping his elbows, almost hugging himself.

"What is it, John?" Sherlock asked him quietly. "What are you so afraid of?"

John bit his lip, then, after a moment, he sucked in a shuddering breath. "A week ago, when I was coming home from work, I saw-... well, I _thought_ I saw somebody I knew."

Sherlock blinked. John's nightmares had come back about a week ago. "Tell me about it?"

John bit his lip again and sat down in his own armchair across from Sherlock. "There was this man I knew, in the army, Bart. Well, I didn't know _him_ particularly well, but I knew his younger brother, Joey... Joseph Kelly. Joey was in my unit, he was a sniper... and he died. Bart was in a different regiment and he-... he didn't take it well, Sherlock." John sucked in a shuddering breath. "Two months after Joey died, I heard that Bart got blown up and sent home."

"Is that who you saw a week ago?" Sherlock asked him.

"Yeah." John nodded. "He - um - he had a prosthetic leg, and he walked around with a cane." His blue eyes slid closed as if recalling a memory. "I probably wouldn't have recognized him... but he wasn't walking around like there was somewhere he needed to be." His eyes opened again and he looked at Sherlock. "He was watching the buildings, Sherlock. He had this consentrated expression on his face and a blink rate that was all Joey... and that was how I recognized him."

"He looked like he had someone in his crosshairs."

* * *

Later that night, after John had gone to bed, Sherlock bundled up in his coat and scarf and took a cab to where John said he had seen Bartholomew Kelly.

He looked around, taking in the police tape stuck up around the area of Major Terrance Dunwhite's death, Lestrade's visit, the bulge in his coat pocket that he had tried to hide, and the vague micro-expressions of guilt he had been directing toward John when he had calmed the man down.

He pulled out his phone and texted Lestrade.

_The case. I want in. -SH_

_No, Sherlock. -Lestrade  
_

_John needs closure. -SH  
_

_... Fine. -Lestrade  
_

_But don't do anything stupid. -Lestrade  
_

_Bartholomew Kelly? -SH  
_

_I won't even ask how you knew. -Lestrade  
_

_John told me. -SH  
_

_Shit. -Lestrade  
_

_He needs to come. -SH  
_

_Bring him. But be careful. -Lestrade  
_


	71. Avenging

Avenging

"John, John wake up." Sherlock called out softly from his position by John's bedroom door. He knew better now, than to touch John when he was sleeping even if he didn't look to be suffering from nightmares.

John stirred and opened his eyes blearily. "Sherlock? What is it? What time is it?"

Sherlock walked in the room as John sat up, he kneeled down by John's bedside. "John, I need to tell you something very important so you need to listen to me."

John paused in the middle of rubbing sleep out of his eyes and looked at him. "Okay, Sherlock, who's dead?" he asked half-jokingly, half-warily.

"Two military men. General Kenswick, and Major Dunwhite." Sherlock told him bluntly.

"Oh my God..." John gasped. "I met Major Dunwhite once before."

"John, you told me you saw Kelly on the way home from work and I checked it out. Major Dunwhite was killed there, shot by a sniper rifle. Lestrade is on the case."

John stared at him. "Greg is...?"

"Yes, and he didn't want to tell you about it, probably because he didn't want to upset you. But he's on his way to apprehend Kelly." Sherlock fell silent, giving John a chance to leave himself out of it.

John stared at his hand curled in his lap for a few minutes. Then he looked up. "Where to?" he asked firmly in his 'Captain John H. Watson' voice.

Sherlock smiled almost proudly.

* * *

"John." Lestrade nodded when he saw the cab pull up and the Baker Street Duo step out. "Glad to see you."

John nodded back curtly. "You too, Greg."

"I thought you said you wouldn't involve them." Donovan said with an odd expression that could almost be translated into concern if you stood on your head and squinted... hard.

"I know-... _knew_ Bart's younger brother, Joey." John told them. "We were in the same unit."

"I heard about what happened." Lestrade frowned. "I'm sorry."

"It must be what pushed Bart over the edge." John shook his head. "He was elusive and withdrawn, but he loved his brother more than anything else."

"Do you know why he chose these victims specifically?" Sherlock asked.

"General Kenswick was the one who made the pretty awful decision that resulted in Private Joseph Kelly's death, and Major Dunwhite bungled up in the field and got Kelly's leg blown off." Lestrade sighed wearily. "That's some pretty serious motive right there."

"He was diagnosed with severe PTSD and couldn't keep a steady job." Donovan frowned. "One too many panic attacks, one too many failures, too much time to simmer in his rage and something in him must've snapped."

John briefly felt his shoulder twinge and his leg throb, and wondered if this is what he would've ended up like if he had never met Sherlock.

Sherlock saw Lestrade and Donovan sending John worried glances and stole their attention. "What's the situation?"

Lestrade shook his head. "We think he's holed up in his flat, up there." He pointed at an apartment complex. "We're still laying low until the rest of the residents clear the building."

John nodded. "I know I shouldn't ask this-..."

Lestrade stopped him with a raised hand. "Then ask it later." He turned to Donovan as he shrugged a bulletproof vest on. "Get the boys ready, we're going in. Sherlock, you and Donovan watch the front, we've got snipers on sight so don't get in their way." He turned and rattled off orders to a few other officers before turning back. "Alright, everybody move out! John, you're with me."

John's eyebrows ran and hid in his hairline. "What?"

"You heard me, you're with me." Lestrade repeated as he led the way to the back entrance of the apartment complex.

"But, isn't that against protocol, or something?" Which was why John had been hesitant to ask if he could join in on the sting.

Lestrade just looked at him and grinned. "We're going in to confront a trained military man and I don't think my fighting skills can match his if push comes to shove, prosthetic leg, or not. I'd feel better with an ex-military man backing me up." He winked. "It's not breaking protocol, it's called making the best of a bad situation even if I'm involving a civilian."

John just smiled and shook his head. "Lead the way then."

They reached the floor that Kelly's flat was on and snuck to the flat in question, officers decked out in full body armor crowded behind them. John could see snipers peeking off the roofs of buildings surrounding them.

Lestrade took a deep breath and nodded at John before pounding on the door. "Bartholomew Kelly? This is the police! Open up!"

No answer.

Lestrade and John exchanged glances and Lestrade pounded on the door again. "Bartholomew Kelly? Open up!"

Still nothing. Lestrade frowned and kicked the door in.

The officers that were crouched behind them now crept to the front and took point, pointing their guns in every direction. Lestrade and John followed.

"Clear!" Someone shouted from the right hand of the flat.

"All clear." Another shouted from the bedroom area.

Lestrade entered the kitchen and saw the blocks of C-4 wired on the kitchen counter. "Run! Bomb!"

_Boom!_

* * *

Sherlock's head snapped up at the explosion so fast that his hapless curls belatedly followed his head. He exchanged glances with Donovan.

"Go! I've got this." Donovan nodded and Sherlock rushed into the building, not needing to be told twice.

* * *

Lestrade groaned, raising a hand to his head. "Sir, sir!" Someone was murmuring. Funny, the officer that was hovering above him looked like he was shouting...

Oh, yeah. Explosion.

He grabbed the man's arm. "John...?"

The officer looked to his right. Lestrade followed his gaze and saw another officer dragging John out of the singed flat, an arm around the doctor's waist, but John looked like he was trying hard to shuffle his feet and walk on his own. At least he wasn't unconscious and he didn't look too injured.

"Gonna need an ambulance." Lestrade mumbled sluggishly.

"On its way. Lets get out of here first." The man nodded soberly as he slung Lestrade's arm over his shoulder and hoisted the injured detective up onto his feet.

"Feel... m'gonna be sick." Lestrade moaned through the nausea.

"Oh no, not yet you don't." The officer said encouragingly. "At least let me get you out somewhere where your sick isn't going to be a problem."

Lestrade snorted weakly through his nose. "Whas' your name?"

The officer looked at him as if there was something odd about him. "Um... Stanley Hopkins, Sir."

"Stanley Hopkins..." Lestrade grunted, "Well, at least I know where to send my apologies."

Hopkins gave a dumb 'huh?' and Lestrade vomited on his combat boots a moment later. "Oh..."

"Sorry."

* * *

Sherlock met them on their way down, he swooped in and plucked John out of the officers' grips and carried him the rest of the way down to the waiting ambulance. "John, can you hear me?" he asked, wiping a smudge of ash off the ex-soldier's face with the pad of his thumb.

"Mm, yeah..." John groaned. "But I think Lestrade took it worse, he was closer... to the bomb. I think he threw up on the way down."

Sherlock breathed out a chuckle and ignored a paramedic who requested he get out of their way. "And Kelly?"

"Wasn't there." John grumbled. "Wasn' there..."

"Alright. Rest, okay?"

"Coming from you, Sher'lck?" John grinned, "Priceless."

* * *

Lestrade woke up in the hospital a few hours later. He wasn't in severe pain, but that might just be because of the painkillers he was no doubt on. He sighed and burrowed himself deeper into his covers, trying to get back to sleep when he heard a murmur in the next room.

His eyes opened. John was in the next room. It was probably Sherlock talking... But Sherlock went back to Baker Street to investigate Kelly's whereabouts an hour ago.

He grunted and swung his shaky legs over the edge of his bed and pushed himself off. The linoleum was cold under his bare feet but he staggered out of his room and into the hall.

The door to John's private ward, compliments of Mycroft, was open a few inches. Lestrade edged himself along the wall and peered in.

Kelly was standing at the foot of John's bed, staring like a lost little boy. A lost little boy with an unholstered gun in his hand. A Browning L9A1.

Lestrade's breath caught in his throat. _Help._ He needed to help. He bit his lip. Walking out of his room and the few steps over here was difficult enough to accomplish. He didn't stand a chance against Kelly.

He turned and crept as quickly and quietly as possible to the nurse's. There were no other patients in the rooms around theirs so Lestrade told the nurses to quietly slip out as he called for police backup.

* * *

"You're John Watson." Kelly said, a statement not a question.

"You remember me?" John asked back weakly. He prided himself a little at not panicking when he woke up and found the ex-military soldier looming over his hospital bed like an avenging angel.

With his gun.

"You were Joey's friend." Kelly nodded. "I didn't expect to see you at my flat with the _coppers_." He spat out the word like a curse, the grip tightened on his gun.

"I wanted to talk to you." John said slowly, calmly. "I just want to understand. Why?"

"'Why'?" Kelly parroted, a dark cloud looming over his features. "They killed Joey."

"They made a bad decision." John told him. "That happens."

"They sent men who didn't have to die to their deaths." Kelly hissed. "And then they just bow their heads for a second so the world could see how much they regret it, and then they do it all over again." He shook his head. "They don't regret it."

"They were good men, and they _did_ regret it." John said firmly. "We all did."

"They _killed_ Joey!" Kelly shouted, walking over to the side of John's bed. "I lost my leg!" There was a snap of straps and latches being released and Kelly toppled forward onto his one leg, the other a blunt stump. _"Look at me!"_

The prosthetic leg fell out of Kelly's pant leg with a clatter, leaving an empty jeaned leg swinging and swaying as Kelly pulled himself up onto his one good leg, leaning on a chair for support. Kelly's face was pale and contorted with disgust, agony, and rage. At the world, at himself, at _John_...

_"Look at me!"_ he screamed again and John found that he couldn't look away. It was one of the most horrifying, terrifying things he had ever seen. He felt blood rush from his face.

"They took my baby brother, my only family away! They took my _leg_ away! I can't run, I can't jump, I can't do a _fucking thing!_" Kelly clawed his free hand through his hair. "And they don't regret it!"

"But _I_ do!" John cried back. "I'm on your side!"

"You were with those cops! I saw you! You were trying to arrest me!" Kelly spat, waving his gun aloft. "You're one of _them_!"

"_No_, I'm like _you_!" John told him, reaching of the collar of his hospital gown slowly as to not set Kelly off. He pulled it open just enough to show Kelly the ugly scar on his shoulder. "I'm like you." he said, quieter this time.

Kelly stared at the white scar tissue in stunned fascination. "In Afghanistan, I got shot. I have a psychosomatic limp and I have to stagger around with a cane sometimes, but I'm still walking." John covered his scar, pulling his hospital gown closed. "And look at you. _You're_ still walking."

"But Joey's not." Kelly said tremulously. "Sometimes I imagine what it was like. How he must've felt when he... died."

John swallowed. "He died instantly, he didn't even feel a thing." Kelly looked at him skeptically. "I was his friend, remember? I was in his unit." John bit his lip. "I was... I was there. And I couldn't save him. And I regret it, every moment that I know I'm here and he isn't. _I regret it._"

The hand holding the gun fell limply to Kelly's side. "I don't understand." he murmured. "I don't understand. Arn't you in the least angry?"

"I am." John pressed his lips together. "I am. Every day. And I wish I can tell you that things get better, that the pain lessens, but I can't. It doesn't, it just gets number." He looked Kelly in the eye. "But continuing to kill, killing the people responsible, it isn't going to make anything better. It isn't going to make it right."

"He would've wanted revenge." Kelly said decisively.

"No, he wouldn't have." John shook his head. "Joey was-... he was alot of things, but he wasn't the kind who could hold a grudge, and he wouldn't have wanted you to kill in his name."

"You don't know everything about him." Kelly glowered.

John stared back boldly. "No, I don't. But I remember a sniper who let us boys tease him about how he'd burn easily because he was half-Irish. And I remember him smiling even when we were being shot at. And I remember him playing with the local children, sharing his candy bars with them and letting them try his helmet on sometimes. Children, sons and daughters of the men who shot at us the day before. He didn't hate them. He didn't blame them." John lowered his gaze. "He was a better man than you or I could ever be."

"Why should _they_ live, in safety, in luxury, while men like Joey had to die?" Kelly asked him, near spitting at the mention of 'them'.

"I don't know." John said honestly, shaking his head. "But killing them won't fix anything. It won't bring Joey back." He reached out his hand slowly, palm up. "Kelly-... Bart. Give me the gun, please."

"I can't, ...I can't..." Kelly's hand tightened and loosened on his gun like a throbbing heart.

"You can." John encouraged. "Let it go, Bart." Kelly sniffed. "Let it go."

The Browning L9A1 fell to the ground with a near deafening clatter and Kelly followed a moment later, his one leg giving out from under him and he collapsed, sobbing.

John climbed gingerly out of his bed and moved the gun to a safe distance when Sherlock, Donovan, and Lestrade entered quietly.

Donovan cuffed Kelly and picked him up gently as Lestrade bent down wincingly and reattached his prosthetic leg. The consulting detective ignored the fallen soldier and sat on John's bed, twisting his long fingers into the sleeve of his hospital gown and pressing his forehead onto his shoulder in a gesture of relief.

Lestrade took the gun from John's hands and led Donovan and Kelly out in a weak shuffle, leaving the two alone.

Sherlock and John just sat there in silence for a long time like that.

Then, John looked up at Sherlock. "There's a Memorial I would like to visit when I get out of the hospital."

Sherlock planted a kiss on John's forehead. "Let's bring flowers. Mrs. Hudson says it is appropriate."

John smiled sadly. "Thank you."

"Anything for you, John."


	72. Fantasizing

Fantasizing

Christmas was here and Lestrade had taken an early visit to Dorset to visit the family for a Christmas celebration because he had work shift on the actual Christmas Eve, Day, and Night. It was a sort of unspoken rule with the boys down at the Yard; the poor bachelors with no Christmas dates had to take Christmas shift to let everybody else with families go home.

So, here Lestrade was, Christmas with the family celebrated, and back in his office first thing on Christmas Eve. It was depressing.

he really wished that criminals would just sit down at home with their families and their friends and eat Chrismas dinner, drink eggnog, sing carols, unwrap presents, and realize that they have people who love them, and that they don't have to go on random killing sprees.

But unfortunately, that didn't happen on the Holiest of Nights because he had a new pile of casefiles on his desk that wasn't there the night before. Testimony of the crimes of Christmas past. He wishes he'd just wake up from this bad dream but, forget flying pigs, that would only happen if said flying pig flew to the North Pole and brought back his red-nosed flying reindeer friend.

But that's not exactly going to happen either. It was okay to fantasize, though, wasn't it?

Donovan, who was also one of the singles, walked in. "We've got a real cold one here." she said, "Got called in five minutes ago."

Lestrade looked at her, eyebrow raised. "'A cold one'?" he parroted disbelievingly. "That's horrible, Donovan, even for you."

Donovan shrugged. "I'm full of fun. I'm single and stuck clearing dead bodies on Christmas, why shouldn't I be?"

Everybody was a little bit crabby today.

* * *

"Please don't tell me that's what I think it is." Lestrade growled around his scarf as he approached the crime scene and ducked under the crime scene tape.

The victim was wearing a red costume lined with white. And an artificial white beard. Donovan smirked bitterly. "Someone killed Father Christmas."

"Okay." Lestrade rolled his eyes as he stomped his feet to retain blood circulation. 'Question the elves and reindeer, I'm going to check out the sled!' he thought wryly but didn't say.

He crouched next to the stiff corpse. "ID?"

Donovan shook her head beside him. "Besides Santa Claus? Nothing, no ID. He wasn't carrying his wallet."

Lestrade poked at the red costume. "No pockets." he grunted.

"He's wearing jogging sweats under that, nothing in those pockets either." Donovan nodded.

Lestrade leaned over and pointed at the victim's hand with his pen. "Wedding band. See if somebody's realized he's missing." Donovan nodded and scribbled something in her notebook.

Lestrade moved on with his observations. He grunted and observed the victim's shoes next. "Cross check missing persons with medical records, see if any of them live in wheelchairs."

"What?" Donovan looked up, blankfaced.

"The top of the shoes are worn and dirty but the bottoms arn't. No dirt, no mud, no snow stuck to them, and the grips arn't worn out. They're perfectly clean." Lestrade stood up from his crouch and looked toward the street. "He was probably killed elsewhere, brought out here in a car, or something, and dumped." looked up to see Donovan looking at him uneasily. "You can say it, get it out of your system." Lestrade sighed.

"You're beginning to sound like Holmes." Donovan deadpanned.

Now it was Lestrade's turn to stare. Since he had returned, Donovan had took to calling Sherlock 'the consultant' or 'the worse half of the Baker Street Duo' and other such monikers. "Not 'Freak'? I mean, I'm glad and all..."

Donovan blustered a little and waved him off. "I'm going to check up on..." She gestured to the victim. "You know."

Lestrade nodded at her and watched her leave.

_Holmes._ She called him 'Holmes'.

He grinned happily.

* * *

Well, they found out who their victim was but not why the crippled man was in a Santa Claus costume. The suspects were Hell to handle, nobody wanted to be bothered with death and murder during Christmas, after all. They were annoyed, grouchy, and at times even rude. Lestrade had to bite his tongue sometimes to keep himself from calling them 'Scrooge'. Repeatedly.

Come on good Sir, help a poor copper out, it's not like he likes doing this on Christmas either.

He sat down wearily in a cafe for a little lunch break and watched people pass by his warm window seat. People hurrying around laden with colourful Christmas presents, children pressing their cold little hands and noses into shop windows, staring longingly at the toys displayed, couples walked arm-in-arm, giggling around cups of hot chocolate.

Lestrade propped his head up on his hand and just watched the world pass by his window seat like a larger than life snow globe.

A family of four passed by. Two young children, one boy, one girl, twins by the look of it, chased each other with tiny handfuls of snow, shrieking in delight. Their young parents huddled into each other for warmth, kissing briefly in the swirling snow, giggling about how romantic it was before their two children made faux-retching noises, tongues stuck out, faces scrunched up in vague disgust.

Everybody laughed. Lestrade quickly turned and stared at his table's surface, embarrassed at observing such a private family moment. He sighed. Nobody to spend Christmases with, that was kind of hard to forget at this particular time of year.

He shook his head and got up and paid for his meal, politely wishing the waitress a Merry Christmas before returning to his case.

* * *

"Keith Heather, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard!" Lestrade called out that evening as he pounded on their suspect's door. Donovan was crouched behind him, ready for an attack. "Open up!"

They heard something, a door, or window, slam shut inside the flat and a metalic clang from somewhere further. He and Donovan exchanged glances. "Fire escape." Donovan voiced his thoughts and she took off down the stairs to cut off Heather's escape from the ground as Lestrade expertly kicked his door down, baton in hand.

The flat was empty, he opened the window and climbed out onto the fire escape to see their suspect agilely climbing away. Lestrade growled and set chase. "Why do they always run?" he wondered aloud to himself as he clambered down the rusty fire escape.

By that time, Heather had reached the snowy ground and took off like a bat out of Hell. Lestrade saw Donovan pursue a second later. He jumped the last few feet to the ground, landing in a slight snow drift, and set off after his sergeant.

Donovan was gaining fast on Heather until a sharp turn took her feet straight out from under her. She hit the ground with a heavy 'thud' and let out a sharp breath of pain. She was back on her feet in a flash as if nothing had ever happened, only, there was a dark glint in her eye that promised an unnecesarily rough takedown of the suspect if Lestrade didn't get to him first.

He cut himself away from the path Donovan was marking out and skidded down a back alley, a shortcut he had learned from chasing after Sherlock. He popped out onto the main street just as Heather was approaching and neatly clotheslined him.

Heather went down with a satisfying 'oof'. Donovan caught up to them a moment later and helped Heather into the cuffs slightly tighter than strictly necessary. Lestrade didn't say anything about it.

"You okay?" he asked her innocently.

"I am now." Donovan huffed back with a grim smile. "You know, you'd think people would consider it too cold to go outside today." she said as they packed their suspect away into the back of a police car. "Most people would just burrow deeper into their beds and go back to sleep, but _no_! They have to go out and kill Father Christmas!" Donovan ranted, rubbing her hip where she had fallen.

"Do you-..." Lestrade began and was cut off by a raised hand and a sharp look from Donovan.

"Sir, if you ask me if I want ice for this, the answer is 'no'." Donovan grumbled.

Lestrade laughed.

* * *

"Oh, Gregory!" Mrs. Hudson greeted cheerfully. "I'm so glad you could make it! Come in!"

Lestrade dusted a light layer of snow off his shoulders and shuffled into the flat. "Is everybody here?" he asked.

"That sweet pathologist, Molly, is on her way and Mycroft is still refusing to come." Mrs. Hudson leaned in conspiratorily. "He was muttering something about 'National Security' and 'irresponsible little brothers', I think he and Sherlock had another spat about a case."

Lestrade chuckled. "Is that why he didn't come to the Christmas party during the Adler case?"

"No, that time, he simply was not invited." Mrs. Hudson sniffed plaintively. "Sherlock wouldn't allow it."

"I can imagine." Lestrade drawled as he shrugged out of his heavy top coat and let Mrs. Hudson hang it up on a rack.

Just then, the door opened and Molly shuffled in, smiling brightly. "Oh, hello! Merry Christmas!" she greeted cheerfully and Lestrade gallantly helped her out of her coat.

"Hello, Molly dear." Mrs. Hudson greeted back warmly. "The boy's are both upstairs, why don't we go on and join them?" She took Molly by the arm and took her up, Lestrade trailing behind. "Not wearing that dress from last year? Pity."

"Oh no, not this year." Molly blustered, picking at her plain, creme-coloured turtleneck. The 'I'm not aiming to impress this time' was not said, but was still understood.

"Shame, I think you looked really nice in it." Lestrade piped up from behind.

"Gregory was gaping in shock, I think." Mrs. Hudson teased, throwing a look over her shoulder.

"Guilty." Lestrade said, hands upraised in surrender. "But still, you're looking very good, Molly." He smiled.

"Thank you." Molly flushed. "You're looking well, too."

"Now don't go flirting with him, dear." Mrs. Hudson admonished teasingly. "He's got his eye on Mycroft."

"Mrs. Hudson!" Lestrade blushed in mortification.

Molly just giggled brightly at them.

* * *

It was nearing eleven o'clock, Christmas Dinner was eaten, presents were exchanged, hot chocolate was passed around for all, and the lights were considerably dimmer compared to when they started out that night.

Sherlock and John were curled up in their respective armchairs by the fire, talking in low murmurs and nursing their beverages. John was picking absently at the jumper Mrs. Hudson got for him and saying something about 'Vatican cameos'.

Nobody, except for the two of them, really understood what they were talking about. They exchanged meaningful glances and chuckled quietly. Sherlock reached over absently and curled the tips of his fingers innocently into John's new jumper and John swatted him with an affectionate snort. It made Lestrade just a little envious of them.

Mrs. Hudson was talking to Molly about recipies and smiling dutifully at her awkward mortician jokes. Lestrade himself was just loitering around, enjoying the warmth and the opportunity to relax, but he was beginning to feel out of place, being the only one in the flat without someone to talk to so he excused himself with quiet partings with Mrs. Hudson and Molly. He didn't want to disturb Sherlock and John.

He bundled up and trudged out into the street to where his car was, fully intent on going home...

...Until he saw the wrapped present in the shotgun seat. He was going to give it to Mycroft but he hadn't come around to Baker Street to pick it up. Lestrade sat in silence for a moment, contemplating.

Then, he started his engine and drove off in a different direction from home.

* * *

Mycroft was roused from his annual tradition of sitting by his fireplace with a drink and reading A Christmas Carol by the doorbell ringing. He frowned. He wasn't expecting company. He stood up with a slight sigh and walked to the front door and opened it.

Lestrade was standing there, shifting uncomfortably, snow blending in with the silver of his hair. The copper gave a small, unsure smile. "Hey, Merry Christmas, Mycroft."

Mycroft blinked. "Merry Christmas, Gregory."

Lestrade bounced a little on the balls of his feet and awkwardly held out a wrapped package. "Christmas present." he said in explanation. "Um, I was going to give it to you at Baker Street but you didn't show up so..." he shrugged a little. "...Just thought I'd come by and drop it off on my way home."

Mycroft took the extended gift unsurely. When was the last time he recieved a gift?

"Well, um, thank you." Mycroft cleared his throat. "For the gift... and for coming all this way to give it to me."

There was a slightly claustrophobic silence before Lestrade broke it. "Yeah, I should go now, shouldn't I?" he grinned, awkwardly.

"Oh no, please, come in." Mycroft blurted, embarrassed for his lack of manners. "You've come all this way, I'm afraid I've inconvenienced you. May I offer you tea? Coffee?"

"Thanks, Mycroft." Lestrade smiled. "But really, it's fine."

"Oh, good." Mycroft smiled self-depricatingly. "I was starting to worry a little. Merrim always cooks around here, I'm quite notoriously..." Mycroft trailed off, thinking the better of it. "Well, let's just say cooking is not my strong suit."

Lestrade laughed. Then he stopped and tried to peer around Mycroft's form. "You're having visitors?" he asked curiously.

Mycroft peered over his own shoulder at the house he knew to be empty. "No I'm afraid not."

"Oh..." Lestrade pursed his lips in that thoughtful way he did when he found out something new about the Holmeses. Like when Sherlock told him there were only three separate instances, since moving out of the Holmes family home, when he celebrated his birthday before he forgot it. His own birthday. "Say, you wouldn't want to get out for a bit, would you?" he asked Mycroft. "I saw a Starbucks on the way over here, might want to get warmed up before the drive home."

Mycroft contemplated it for a moment. "I suppose... I _have_ been craving hot chocolate." he admitted. "I wonder if they're still open at this time." He glanced at his watch.

"Dunno." Lestrade chuckled, shrugging his shoulders. "It looked open."

"Then, I guess we _must_ find out." Mycroft sighed in fake resignation. "Wait a moment while I look for my coat."

Lestrade entered the foyer and waited, leaning against the wall, as Mycroft shuffled off somewhere. He glanced at his ghostly reflection in the small glass panes on the front door and just let himself fantasize, just for a moment, that coming here on Christmas wasn't an unplanned occurance.

Then, Mycroft returned with his coat, breaking him out of his fantasy. "Shall we go?" Mycroft asked.

Lestrade grinned back. "Yeah, let's."


	73. Honest

Honest

"...And Dimmock was flailing and screaming so loudly, I thought the poor sod was going to have a heart attack!" Lestrade was chuckling to Mycroft as they stomped through the snow toward the Starbucks down the street. Mycroft had originally suggested that they drive there, as it was horribly cold, but Lestrade just shook his head and told him that it wasn't more than a five minute walk and they could stand a little chill.

In fact, Lestrade seemed to be comfortable in the cold, hands shoved deep into his pockets, skillfully avoiding patches of ice as he talked. A rare and admirable talent.

Mycroft, on the other hand, was staring studiously at the pavement, slipping and sliding at nearly every turn and step. He had both hands out of his pockets, one to hold his umbrella to keep himself from being snowed on, and the other just in case he fell and had to catch himself.

Lestrade lied, it was more like a ten minute walk. Mycroft was sure of it.

"And he vowed never to come with me on a chase in the snow ever again!" Lestrade finished his story with a slight flourish and an easy hop over a particularly invisible patch of frozen water just as Mycroft stepped on it and wobbled.

Mycroft didn't know how Lestrade did it.

"Enlightening." was all he could say in response to Lestrade's story. He hadn't been listening at all.

Luckily, Lestrade didn't seem to have noticed his preoccupied attention. "It was funny because he actually helped take the suspect down when he fell, classic slapstick humor-like."

Finally, the inevitable happened and Mycroft slipped on a patch of ice and lost his balance. Lestrade was suddenly there, a firm grip on his arm, steadying him, his other hand holding down Mycroft's flailing umbrella.

"And then Donovan didn't stop teasing him about it for _months_ afterward!" Lestrade continued without missing a beat, as if he hadn't noticed that Mycroft slipped. "Every single time the snow comes around, she'll mention something!" Lestrade cackled.

"I - uh - see." Mycroft coughed, reclaiming his balance hurriedly.

"Yeah, you alright?" Mycroft rolled his eyes upward in annoyance. Just when he thought Lestrade might not say anything about his embarrassing mishap...

"I'm fine." he stated firmly.

"You looked like you slipped." Lestrade deadpanned.

"You know I did." Mycroft scowled back at the growing smirk on Lestrade's face. "And I'd thank you for helping me if I didn't know you'd tattle to Anthea or Sherlock about it."

"Anthea, yes. Sherlock? No. I'm not that cold-hearted." Lestrade grinned back cheekily as he typed on his phone, voicing out his text as he did so. "Christmas phenomonon..." Click, click, click. "Mycroft almost faceplanted in the snow."

"Really now, Gregory..." Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Christmas came perfectly on time this year." Lestrade concluded to his phone and Mycroft snorted in amusement.

"Starbucks, Gregory. We're here." he said, pinching a bit of the fabric of Lestrade's sleeve to keep the man from walking straight past the coffee shop.

Lestrade wheeled around, not even looking up from his phone. "Anthea says; Thank you, Mister Holmes would not suit a broken nose."

Mycroft stubbornly ignored him. "Still open." he murmured, referring to the Starbucks.

"Past closing time." Lestrade chimed in mildly when he saw the proper closing time stenciled on the entrance.

"What is the use of running a country if you do not abuse your power every once in a while?" Mycroft shrugged innocently, Lestrade laughed. "What? I want my hot chocolate and I did not struggle through the icy streets only to be denied it."

"Yeah, you definitely deserve it, with that close call outside just now." Lestrade smirked. Mycroft glared back without malice.

They got their hot chocolate and pastries, Black Forest cake for Mycroft and a cranberry and orange muffin for Lestrade, before seating themselves at a table by the window.

"It's kind of weird," Lestrade hummed, "having a whole Starbucks to yourself." He looked around. "Like, Twilight Zone kind of weird. It's _never_ this empty."

They settled back into comfortable small talk over hot drinks. Honestly, Lestrade hadn't expected them to be able to enjoy each other's easy company with the three year absence and all, but they did. Small mercies.

Finally, after their food was eaten and every drop of their beverages drained, Mycroft glanced at his watch. "We both should be getting home soon." he remarked.

Lestrade glanced at his own watch. "Oh, shit. Is that the time already?" They got up to go, plunging their hands into thick gloves and tightening scarves around their necks. "I'll walk you home."

"Oh, there's no need." Mycroft smiled politely.

"There's never any _need_." Lestrade smirked. "But I left my car near your house and I can't, in all good conscience, let you walk home alone, just in case you slip again."

Mycroft scowled. "Just know that I am only agreeing to this because you need your car tomorrow morning."

Lestrade smiled back infuriatingly. "Of course, Mycroft."

* * *

"So Moran was behind all those computer specialists getting killed?" Lestrade asked after he convinced Mycroft to tell him everything about Sherlock's circumstances during his self-imposed exile.

"Unfortunately, yes." Mycroft sighed. "A few of them were very good at their jobs, too. A damn shame, really."

Lestrade grunted. "I tried cross checking pictures of snipers with military training with what I remember of Moran's face when I saw him in the pool. The first time Sherlock confronted Moriarty." He shook his head. "A few hours into it, all the faces started looking the same."

Mycroft chuckled. "Understandable." They fell into a brief silence. "You told John, about Sherlock." he said slowly.

Lestrade blinked. "Yeah, I did." He glanced at Mycroft and the government agent pretended to fully concentrate on the ground he was walking on. "I know I said I wouldn't, but I couldn't help it." He debated saying anything more to Mycroft before shaking his head. "I talked John off the roof... of St. Bart's." Mycroft's head shot up and he stared at Lestrade in horror.

The elder Holmes took a moment to think about how close they may have been to losing their doctor. "... Ah."

"Yeah." Lestrade grimaced. "I mean, I doubt he would've actually done it, not his style. But he was contemplating it... just a little." He fought off a phantom chill on his spine. "That's why I decided to tell him."

"And I admit you were right to." Mycroft sighed in understanding.

Lestrade seemed to be thinking about something. "But, back to Moran and the computer code, did you find out who was behind the attempt to recreate it?" he asked.

"Unfortunately, we have not gotten that far." Mycroft shook his head grimly. "Although, our investigations show that it must be someone of considerable... power."

Lestrade looked at him. "Someone who's a threat?"

Mycroft's lips thinned into a white line. "Someone with equal power, if not more so, than I."

"Someone, you may not be able to protect me from, if push comes to shove." Lestrade said perceptively.

"Yes." Mycroft grunted grimly. Then he shook his head. "Gregory, this is hardly a topic for Christmas, let's talk about something else."

Lestrade nodded readily. "Yeah, but what about?" he asked rhetorically. Neither of them knew, so they fell into silence.

Mycroft had his thinking face on and a most peculiar expression when they passed by a drunken couple on their way back from a Christmas party. They were swaying slightly, leaning on each other for support, giggling and slurring Christmas carols through clumsy kisses and clasped hands. Lestrade thought his friend looked almost envious.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked Mycroft.

Mycroft snapped his gaze away from the couple and to Lestrade. "Nothing." he said, face expressionless.

Too expressionless. It was a tell that he was consciously supressing the emotions on his face.

"You know, 'the truth will set you free', Mycroft." Lestrade teased.

Then something shifted behind Mycroft's dark eyes, like a reservoir cracking open. "'Truth'?" He let out a humorless chuckle. "You want the truth? Well, the truth, Gregory, is that I've been trying to fall out of love with you for years... and failing... _spectacularly_!"

Lestrade froze, eyes wide, face blank. That one came out of nowhere.

"A truth, I'm afraid, that you've already realized by now." Mycroft continued, Lestrade met his gaze. "Yes, I know you've known for some time. And I realize that neither of us are even remotely confident in an endeavor to date, which is why I've never said anything about it until now."

"And what's different now?" Lestrade asked him.

"Because you wanted the truth." Mycroft said simply. "And because I grew tired of hiding it. I had been waiting for a while now for you to settle down some, one problem at a time, and all that. But - please don't take this the wrong way, Gregory - your life is what you would probably call a 'clusterfuck', one disaster after another."

"It's great, isn't it?" Lestrade drawled dryly, then smiled and shrugged helplessly. "Well, the cat's out of the bag, so what do we do about it?" he asked unsurely. "Leave it alone and it's bound to cause trouble."

"I don't know." Mycroft admitted honestly. His phone chimed.

_The socially accepted response is to ask him out. -A_

Lestrade watched as pinpricks of pink grew on Mycroft's cheeks at his new text. Mycroft looked at him. "Anthea says I should ask you out... on a date, I suppose she meant."

"And what do _you_ think you should do?" Lestrade asked him slowly.

"I think..." Mycroft frowned a little, wrinkles forming on his brow. "...I cannot bear to think of watching you enter casual relationships with people you don't love, anymore. As selfish as that may be." He turned and continued walking, Lestrade following. "I also think that I value you too much as a friend, but I should not let that hinder my hope to value you, also, as a man." He slowed to a stop in front of his house and turned to Lestrade. "So please, accept my clumsy attempts to woo you, because I would like to spend next Christmas with you."

He stepped inward and pressed a chaste kiss on Lestrade's cheek. "Merry Christmas, Gregory. And please, consider well before responding to my offer of courtship." he said kindly to the stunned man and turned to go inside.

"Mycroft." Lestrade called after him. Mycroft turned on his front step. "I'll think about it, yeah? And, see you on New Years?" Lestrade allowed a small smile.

Mycroft mirrored his expression. "Baker Street, I presume?"

Lestrade shrugged. "Or wherever."

There was a cliche remark that Lestrade said movies always used in situations like this... Mycroft's smile grew just a fraction. "It's a date, then."

Lestrade burst out laughing. "Merry Christmas, Mycroft."


	74. Sleepless

Sleepless

This. This is so unfair.

Lestrade grunted to himself as he turned over on his bed and burrowed under his covers. The digital clock on his nightstand told him it was two o'clock in the morning, but sleep was the last thing on Lestrade's mind.

So - _so_ unfair. This whole situation, it was cruel, unreasonable, wicked, and just plain mean. It was so... Mycroft. It just about sums him up.

Lestrade buried his face in his blanketed hands and groaned.

_Mycroft._

Mycroft, who kidnapped people and laughed about it. Mycroft, who spoke of international crisises with as little thought or care as if he were talking about the weather. Mycroft, who has everybody of interest under surveilance. Mycroft, who was the British Government... and then some. Mycroft, who lied about Sherlock's death. Mycroft, who had asked-... _begged_ him to lie to his best friend about Sherlock's death...

Mycroft, with his ridiculous suits and umbrellas. Mycroft, who may-or-may-not single-handedly keep the earth spinning on it's axis. Mycroft, who chased him down every time he felt himself being sucked into the Welles Case. Mycroft, who - if Sherlock would outlive God to have the last word - at least outlive Sherlock, just to keep him in line in God's absence. Mycroft, who would lie to his friend about Sherlock's death. Mycroft, who both endangered and saved Lestrade's life more times than he cared to count.

Mycroft, who worried about Sherlock... constantly.

Mycroft, who wanted to court Lestrade.

Mycroft, ... possibly the last man on earth who used words like 'court' or 'woo'... possibly because he was secretly a vampire who lived in times that used those sort of words.

Lestrade ran his fingers through his hair. "Fuck, Mycroft, I'm losing precious sleep over you, you better feel fucking special." he grumbled to the room in general.

He ran the hand in his hair over his cheek.

Mycroft, who may-or-may-not sanitize his hands after a handshake, kissed him.

"Aw, shit!" Lestrade rolled onto his other side, determined not to think about it. Then, he thought better of it. This situation wasn't going to go away even if he tried to ignore it.

He got up, wrapped himself up in a jumper, and padded barefoot to his kitchen to make himself a cup of tea when he realized that he wasn't going to go to sleep anytime soon.

_Maybe I shouldn't have gone to deliver Mycroft's Christmas present..._

Lestrade shook his head again when he remembered Mycroft's empty house, too big for just one man. On Christmas, when he should be spending the day with family or friends. Sitting at home, alone, in that huge museum of a house.

It was a heartbreakingly lonely thought. Even when Lestrade had run away from home when he was a teenage drug addict, he spent Christmas once with a friend he had met at a club, the other years were spent in the Bates home. In the police academy he hung around with Dimmock, and when he finally made detective, with Meadows... and then he got married. And even after he divorced, he still celebrated with Dimmock, Meadows, and Donovan as well as Sherlock. And then Mycroft and John stepped into the picture with Mrs. Hudson and Molly... Lestrade couldn't remember a Christmas that he celebrated alone.

It wasn't difficult to imagine Mycroft to be a horribly lonely man.

He had his younger brother, who hates his guts. An assistant, who Lestrade was sure had mysterious other things to do on Christmas... like moonlighting as Santa Claus's PA, because Anthea demanded awe like that. And an equally mysterious 'Mummy Holmes' who Lestrade was beginning to think was a myth.

And then there was John, who was in equal parts terrified, annoyed, and wary of Mycroft.

And there was him. Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.

Lestrade, who had pickpocketed Mycroft on their first meeting. Who had been both intregued and annoyed by Mycroft. Who knew almost nothing about Mycroft though knowing the cold hard fact that Mycroft knew everything about him. Lestrade, who would have gone mad, gotten killed, kidnapped, and given up on difficult cases if it hadn't been for Mycroft. Lestrade, who liked Mycroft, but was struck terrified at the thought of losing an irreplacable friend in an attempt to attain a lover.

"So unfair." Lestrade growled out decidedly.

What gave Mycroft the right to break his Iceman persona and fall in love? With _him_, of all people? A highschool drop-out, a runaway, a drug addict, a workaholic, world-weary, downtrodden, grey-haired copper past his prime? What gave Mycroft the right to be so apathic and cold enough to chase Lestrade away to Dorset and then lure him back with a simple apology?

Lestrade's hands tightened around his tea mug, he never bothered with teacups in the privacy of his home.

And what was he, some sort of dog? Who would bark, bite, and growl at Mycroft until he called and made him come running? A stubborn old mutt who followed orders... until he didn't? Who responded to every smile like a pat on the head, every laugh like a treat, and every kindness like an extention of affection?

And what was it about Mycroft that made him compare himself to a dog? Lestrade shook his head and retracted that thought immediately, Mal was a wonderful canine.

He drained the last sips of his tea and deposited his cup into his sink.

And really, nothing good could come from dating Mycroft Holmes... except maybe seeing Sherlock's reaction to the news. Just think about it, Sherlock would be incorrigible... as if there was a time he wasn't. And they would probably have arguments that would have catastrophic National repurcussions. And- and what if Mycroft was actually asexual?

That thought knocked Lestrade clear off mental balance.

He couldn't - _shouldn't_ - try to imagine it. Mycroft who only tolerated physical contact from Lestrade or Anthea... Lestrade snorted out a laugh at the thought of the normally poised and prude Mycroft Holmes in any sexual situation with a woman... or a man. Lestrade gave up and fell into nervous fits of giggles. He couldn't imagine Mycroft being intimate... ever.

Lestrade pressed his lips together thoughtfully.

_"Please, accept my clumsy attempts to woo you, because I would like to spend next Christmas with you."_ Lestrade felt heat prickle at the base of his neck.

Yeah, tonight's kiss - despite being on the cheek - was pretty damn intimate. Shit, 'tonight', was it still the same day? It felt like he was kissed eons ago.

Lestrade dropped his face in his hands. "What the Hell am I doing?" he groaned. "I'm supposed to be asleep!"

_Dammit, Mycroft!_

"You know what?" he said to himself as he stalked back to his bedroom. "Sod this. Sod Mycroft, I said I'd think about it, and I did. I have a right to go to sleep." He needed to sleep just in case he thought about this whole... _thing_ too much and worked himself into a freakout.

He did not sleep that night. Not. A. Single. Wink.

If he left a panicked voice mail on Anthea's Blackberry during said freakout sometime between four a.m. to five thirty a.m. it was not spoken about.

Ever.

And if his phonecall was put through to voice mail by Mycroft occupying her phone line with _his_ freakout, that was not spoken of either. And if Anthea demanded a raise in her salary, staunchly refusing to say the reason why, Mycroft allowed it because he trusted that he didn't want to know.

It was a sleepless night for all of them.


	75. In Love

In Love

"So, ...we missed you in Baker Street after the party." John said aside to Lestrade while they stood back and let Sherlock reign over the crime scene.

"Yeah, I went home earlier. You didn't look like you'd notice so I just said goodbye to Mrs. Hudson and Molly." Lestrade smirked.

"What?" John asked when he saw the smirk directed at him.

"Nothing, I just think it's adorable, you and Sherlock." Lestrade chuckled. "Makes it actually worth it to have him back."

John sqwawked incoherently and struggled for words. "_Adorable_?" was all he managed to come up with at the end of it all.

"Sherlock being all love-struck and clingly?" Lestrade grinned. "Oh, yeah."

"_Clingy_?" was John's next intelligible word.

Lestrade nodded. "Yeah, you know, when he drags you around by the sleeve instead of running about and expecting you to either keep up or get left behind like he used to. Or when he keeps his hand on your arm or shoulder when you're in a crowd, or when he's just lazing around and manages to snag a jumper that's conveniently lying around."

"He's... protective." John insisted. "With all that had happened with Kelly."

"Also, he missed you while he was gone in self-exile." Lestrade shot back dryly. "Glaringly obvious."

John spluttered for a moment or two before narrowing his eyes at Lestrade. "You're enjoying this, arn't you?"

"Every second of it." Lestrade replied smugly.

"You're a horrible friend." John complained. Then changed his mind, "No, you're not, you're one of the best, actually, and I think you probably don't get thanked enough for it. I don't even think I've gotten the chance to thank you for raising the alarm in the hospital yet."

Lestrade blinked. "...Okay? Thanks."

"I mean it." John said, more serious now. "You know, Sherlock may never call you a friend to your face, but you are... just in case that wasn't obvious. I mean, it _is_ but, you know Sherlock. It's never something he says."

"To me." Lestrade nodded in understanding.

"To you, yeah." John nodded back, full of the realization that he was blatantly making a fool of himself in front of his friend, but that he didn't mind it. Things like this were important.

"Alright, so Sherlock admitted I was a friend, it's a whole different matter if he says it himself." Lestrade said.

"What's the difference?" John asked, confused.

"It's like someone saying 'you like so-and-so' and you saying 'yes, I do' is different from you yourself saying 'I like so-and-so'. It's just not said, especially by a Holmes." Lestrade shrugged. "Besides, he himself called you a 'friend' and then he started dating you, John, I'm perfectly fine with staying his aqcuaintence." Suddenly, a sly look grew on John's face and Lestrade had a sinking feeling he knew exactly what he was about to say moments before he said it. "John, don't even go there." he warned.

"Well, that explains why you're such good '_friends'_ with Mycroft." John grinned brightly.

"I _told_ you not to go there." Lestrade groaned irratibly. "I can't believe you went there!"

"Oh, I _so_ did!" John crowed back.

"Lestrade, I hope you're taking notes!" Sherlock suddenly shouted from his position near the corpse.

Lestrade's indignation and John's triumphant amusment immediately slid off their faces.

"What notes?"

Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes.

* * *

"So...?" Mrs. Hudson questioned innocently the next day when Lestrade stopped by for tea. "What's this I hear about you and Mycroft being friendly again?"

Lestrade almost dropped his teacup. There was just something unsettling about the way Mrs. Hudson said 'friendly'... He slowly put his cup down, a perfect picture of self-control...

... Once of the fragile porcelain was out of his hands, Lestrade regarded Mrs. Hudson with a perfectly serious look. "Mrs. Hudson, excuse me while I go kill John." And he was off, his footsteps flying up the stairs in the foyer outside to the flat above.

Five seconds later, the three Baker Street boys started yelling simultaneously. Lestrade shouting 'You snitch!', John shrieking, 'I'm sorry! it was an accident, okay?', and Sherlock bellowing. 'What the _Hell_ is going on?'

Mrs. Hudson serenely lifted her teacup to her lips and sighed in satisfaction at the warm brew sliding across her tongue.

How lovely that they were all getting on so well...

* * *

"So..." Lestrade let out a feral growl even before Donovan finished her sentence. He was really beginning to hate whenever a conversation started with 'so'. "... Maybe I'll come back later?" Donovan raised her hands in an abortive motion.

Lestrade dropped his head onto his desk. "No, sorry." he sighed. "John and I had a little... _scuffle_ yesterday. It's been picking at my nerves since!"

"What were you two fighting about?" Donovan asked curiously.

Lestrade lifted his head, clenched his jaw, once, twice. "Okay, honest opinion, Donovan. What do you think about Mycroft?" he asked point-blank.

"The older Holmes?" Donovan asked.

"That's the one." Lestrade groaned.

"I don't know." Donovan shrugged. "You two seem to get along."

"Just getting along, right?" Lestrade asked, making sure not to say the growing taboo word 'friendly'.

"Well, there was a time when I thought you two were dating, but I've been wrong before." Donovan said honestly.

Lestrade dropped his head again. "I want to die." he moaned.

"Why?" Dimmock asked, walking in just in time to hear the end of the conversation.

"I think he's in denial." Donovan told Dimmock. "He's been asking what I thought of him and Mycroft Holmes."

"Why does that make him in denial?" Dimmock asked, confused.

"Because I get the feeling he was hoping I'd tell him that they were just close friends." Donovan rolled her eyes.

"Don't say that word!" Lestrade shouted, voice muffled in his arms.

"What word?" Donovan asked, baffled.

"'Friends'?" Dimmock wondered aloud at the same time. Lestrade pointed accusingly at Dimmock with a pained grunt. "What's wrong with saying 'friends'?" Dimmock asked, still confused.

Donovan seemed to understand, though. "Oh, is _that_ what kids are calling it these days?" she smirked.

Lestrade whimpered into his arms. "I want to die." he croaked again.

If he had been able to see the future, he would have the consolation of knowing that his problem involving Mycroft and the innocent word 'so', would leave him alone... until the following day.

* * *

"So."

Lestrade clapped his hands over his ears. "Oh, _God_! Hell no! I don't want to hear anything, especially from _you_!" he yelled, stalking purposefully out of the room, hands blocking out all noise as he went.

Sherlock stared at him leave like he had just grown something where a thing shouldn't be. And, usually one would remark on an additional head, or even an arm, but who really knew what extra things these strange Holmeses would imagine up? Lestrade promptly decided that he didn't want that particular questioned answered.

John stood beside Sherlock, snickering.

Sherlock looked at his boyfriend. "And this is why I don't compliment people on their favorable appearances, John. Not even for politeness' sake." he said morosely.

John just laughed harder.

"I just wanted to say how nice it was that he had finally taken the time to shine his shoes."

John began gasping for breath.

"Please note that this is the last time I'm taking social advice from you." Sherlock said flatly to his convulsing boyfriend.

* * *

The next day, Lestrade fidgeted in his seat in the back of a nice black car. Anthea glanced at him over her Blackberry. Lestrade uneasily caught her gaze. "Please, for the sake of our tentative friendship, don't prompt a conversation starting with 'so'." Lestrade said, not really caring if the woman thought he was crazy. That was the nice thing about being with Anthea, she wasn't judgemental.

Anthea just smiled back sympathetically. "I know."

They survived the rest of their journey in blessed silence.

* * *

The day after - New Year's Eve - Lestrade was chauffeured to Sandy and Jonah's diner after work.

"So." was the first thing Sandy said.

There was a sharp intake of breath from Lestrade and he stiffened but smiled politely. He wouldn't blow up at Sandy because she was one of his best friends. He wouldn't, he wouldn't, he wouldn't...

"Hey," Sandy complained to Jonah. "he didn't spontaneously combust like Anthea said he might."

"You owe me five quid." Jonah remarked mildly.

Maybe he should've.

Lestrade just collapsed bonelessly into a chair at the window table that was now almost exclusively reserved for Mycroft and himself. "I hate you." he whined.

"Anthea said you were having man problems?" Sandy smiled encouragingly to him as she poured him a glass of water.

"Since when are you and Anthea buddies?" Lestrade asked back.

"That doesn't answer the question." Jonah chimed in, taking his adoptive sister's side.

"Well, it's not really a problem..." Lestrade frowned.

"So it's good?" Sandy asked. "Whatever happened."

Lestrade stared at his toes, mind flitting back to the feel of soft, warm lips on his cheek in contrast to the freezing cold and falling snow.

"I'll take that reaction as 'it was bloody good'." Jonah grinned, taking the seat opposite Lestrade and leaning his elbows on the table.

Lestrade looked up, only then realizing that his face was warmer than strictly normal. "Um..."

"We're not asking for the dirty details," Sandy smiled impishly, "we're just making sure you know what you're getting into with Mycroft."

"I-..." Lestrade cut himself off. "Wait, who said anything about Mycroft?"

Jonah laid a comforting hand on Lestrade's shoulder. "Mate, it's common knowledge."

Lestrade looked at Sandy accusingly. "You started with 'so'."

"And 'so' always leads to Mycroft-talk." Sandy grinned back. "_So_, ...what happened?"

"I don't know." Lestrade sighed in despair. "I don't really know what's going on so I'm not broadcasting it." Jonah lifted an eyebrow. "I mean, I was still getting past my anger at Mycroft for disappearing and then this..."

"'This' being...?" Sandy questioned.

Lestrade subconsciously lifted a hand and scratched at his cheek. "A potential relationship came knocking, saying 'ready or not, here I come!' I told him I'd think about it."

Sandy and Jonah chuckled. "But you like him, don't you?" Jonah asked.

Lestrade was still thinking about his reply when Mycroft arrived and the conversation was forgotton... temporarily.

* * *

After dinner was finished, Mycroft snuck a peek at his watch. "Ah, I believe it must be time to go." he said thoughtfully.

"Okay." Lestrade got up and shuffled into his coat before even thinking to ask, "Um, where are we going?"

Mycroft smiled at him. "To the river. I always found dining before boarding a watercraft much more pleasant than _on_ the boat."

"Okay..." Lestrade smiled. "Are you going to tell me what boat we're going on, and what river?"

Mycroft smiled enigmatically. "What time is it, Detective Inspector?"

Lestrade's brow furrowed and he peeled up a sleeve. Then dropped it, eyes wide. "No way..."

The smile on Mycroft's face only grew.

* * *

"A river cruise." Lestrade shook his head in amazement. "For the New Year's celebration."

John stood beside him grinning like a little boy. "Bloody unbelievable, right?"

They just stood and watched Sherlock and Mycroft bicker about something or the other. Mrs. Hudson was huddled up with Molly, Anthea, and Donovan, Dimmock was running back and forth from the bow to stern of the ship like a squirrel on crack in his excitement.

It was only five minutes before the countdown when everybody started settling down comfortably. Sherlock was melded into John's side, Mrs. Hudson and Molly on his right while Mycroft and Lestrade sat on John's left with Anthea sitting beside them, separating them from Donovan and Dimmock.

_**"5...!"**_

Dimmock, Donovan, and Molly shouted.

_**"4...!"**_

John and Lestrade eagerly joined in.

_**"3...!"**_

Anthea and Mrs. Hudson smiled warmly at their respective Holmes associate and their dates.

_**"2...!"**_

The two Holmeses had to be nudged pointedly to join in the chant.

_**"1...!"**_

Lestrade glanced over at Mycroft just in time to see Mycroft doing the same. They grinned.

_**"Happy New Year!"**_

The Clock Tower exploded with light at every gong of its old bell. They could hear people on the river bank cheering, welcoming the new year with gusto. Then the sky lit up with colour and sparks stabbed the Heavens, shaking it to its very foundations with every explosion.

Lestrade laughed at the slightly ticklish feeling of air molecules jumping on his skin.

Mycroft stared upward with a very rarely seen expression of undisguised awe. He had been overseas for the last New Year's celebration and had missed it. The sky was on fire. Not even becoming increasingly aware of Sherlock and John snogging at his right elbow could disturb his delight at the scene before him.

He glanced to his other side and smiled at Lestrade. His eyes were wide with a childish glee and his mouth hung open a fraction, the gyrating explosions of colour gave the man's skin a milky white glow and sprinkled his hair with glitter. Suddenly, the DI threw his head back and let out an unbridled whoop of exhilaration.

Nobody spoke after that, nobody moved, sometimes they couldn't even be certain they were breathing until the fireworks died down.

Anthea and Dimmock were the first to move, eager to get warm, next was Molly, and after she left, so did Donovan, Mrs. Hudson, John, and Sherlock.

Lestrade yawned and stretched languidly in his seat like a very satisfied cat. "This was great, Mycroft, thank you." he smiled when he righted himself.

"The pleasure was mine." Mycroft smiled back warmly.

"Anthea told me you missed last year's celebration." Lestrade remarked.

"Yes, I was in Hong Kong." Mycroft mused. "Though, the New Year's celebrations over there are no less impressive."

Lestrade laughed. "Lucky you. I was on duty last New Year's."

They sat in silence for a while, just savoring the moment. Mycroft noticed the thoughtful look on Lestrade's face. Lestrade looked up and caught him staring. Mycroft quickly looked away and Lestrade smiled.

"You know what my New Year's resolution is going to be?" Lestrade spoke.

"What is it?" Mycroft asked him, meeting his gaze again.

"Never to be afraid of something wonderful just because I'm afraid to lose it." Lestrade told him with an embarrassed smile. "Though, I think you're going to have to remind me of that sometimes."

Mycroft blinked. And in the split-second in which his eyes were closed, he found himself being kissed. And not on the cheek.

It was just an innocent press of lips against lips before Lestrade was pulling back, blushing furiously.

"Happy New Year, Mycroft."

Mycroft blinked, then a slow smile snaked across his face. "So..." he said deliberately.

Lestrade burst out laughing. A second later, Mycroft joined him.

"Happy New Year, Gregory."


	76. Dating

Dating

Mycroft sat in John's designated armchair across from Sherlock, the two brothers stared each other down stubbornly.

Mycroft was the first to break the silence. "I will endeavor to date Gregory, Sherlock." he said simply. "I am not asking for your blessing or approval, I am simply informing you of my decision."

"I hate you Mycroft." Sherlock growled back almost before Mycroft even finished his sentence. "You. No. You cannot do this. I met Lestrade first. If you get him to work for you, I will hate you forever." He trailed off, an odd look on his face and amended his statement. "No, scratch that, I _always_ hate you. I want you to die, Mycroft. In a ditch. Beaten by your own umbrella, choked to death with that horrible chocolate cake you love, and run over by your precious cars." He glowered. "Just die."

Mycroft blinked impassively. "Careful, Sherlock. You're smothering me with brotherly love." he said dryly.

John came at that moment with tea. "I don't see what the big problem is, Sherlock." he said as he handed Mycroft a cup. "They like each other - _have_ liked each other for ages!" He served Sherlock tea next. "I think it's all very lovely, and about damn time."

Sherlock looked imploringly at John. "But dating demands sufficient time spent together."

"That's the thing about dating, Sherlock." John sighed back.

"You're worried he's going to spend all his time with me instead of giving cases to you." Mycroft said, more a statement than a question.

"I do not rely solely on Scotland Yard for cases, Mycroft." Sherlock snapped back.

"But you _do_ rely on them to make arrests." John pointed out.

"Are you on his side, or mine?" Sherlock asked, feigning hurt.

"Neither, I'm on Greg's." John shrugged. "One thing I learned; when you Holmeses are having a spat, root for the side that's not involved."

"But Lestrade_ is_ involved." Sherlock shot back. "He's the subject of debate."

"Then, don't you think he should be here to hear it?" John hinted. "You know, he might have a thing or two to say about the matter."

Sherlock and Mycroft exchanged glances. "No."

John blinked, baffled. "Why not?"

"Because it's _Gregory_." Mycroft said in the tone Lestrade usually reserved for the words; Because it's _Sherlock_! "In the end, it's only his vote that holds any power."

Sherlock grunted in agreement.

"And if we invite him, the decision would be made speedily. And we..." Mycroft motioned between himself and Sherlock. "...wouldn't even have the opportunity to disagree about anything!"

"For once, Mycroft's right." Sherlock nodded.

"You two..." John shook his head despairingly. "I don't think I've ever seen two brothers who relish arguing as much as you do."

"Anyway." Mycroft finished off his tea and stood. "I should be off. I only came by to inform you of my decision, brother."

"What? Leaving so soo-..."

Sherlock clapped a hand over John's mouth. "Oh, thank God. Call in Mrs. Hudson on your way out, would you?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "I'm sure you are perfectly capable to do it your self, Sherlock." And he left.

He did not call Mrs. Hudson.

* * *

The next day, Lestrade found a single long stemmed red rose on the shotgun seat of his car. He sat behind the wheel for a moment, staring at it. Then he picked it up and noticed that the thorns had been meticulously sawed off for him.

He sat for a few more minutes, staring at the rose in his hand. He had a feeling he knew exactly who would leave a rose in his car. In fact, he was quite certain that there was only one man in the world who would do so.

Then he remembered that he had to get to work and hastily threw his car into gear. He wondered if he had something like a vase at the office.

* * *

"I like the new decoration." Donovan smirked when she saw the rose lying on Lestrade's desk.

"I found it in the car this morning." Lestrade explained.

"From a secret admirer?" Donovan asked with a knowing smile. "...Or, a not so secret one?"

Lestrade just picked the rose up again and smiled, slightly embarrassed. What kind of man had other men leaving roses in his car anyway?

Later that day, Lestrade interviewed a seven-year-old witness to a murder and gave her the pretty rose as a distraction from the bad memories.

He grinned at her toothless smile. It was beautiful.

When he returned to his office there was another identical rose on his desk... in a small, white vase made from porcelain.

He had to turn away to keep Donovan from seeing the smile break out across his face. "Bloody Mycroft." he grunted around his blush.

Donovan just looked indulgently at him. "Good to see you back in the game, Sir." she grinned.

Lestrade had half a mind to hold her in contempt just for that.

* * *

Lestrade caught Dimmock that night, just as he was about to sneak out.

Lestrade looked him up and down. "You're looking tidy." he remarked at his casual, but clean, attire.

Dimmock's face immediately exploded into the colour of tomatoes. "I - um..."

"Got a date?" Lestrade asked innocently.

"Yeah..." Dimmock gave a silly grin. "With Molly."

"Look at you!" Lestrade exclaimed. "All grown up." He ruffled Dimmock's combed hair.

Dimmock yelped and frantically patted his hair back down with his hands. "We're going to a movie, and then maybe dinner." he told Lestrade.

"Sounds like fun." Lestrade smiled back at his surrogate brother. "But don't try seafood. Molly's allergic to alot of it, and the stuff that she isn't allergic to, she doesn't like." He informed helpfully.

"I'll keep that in mind." Dimmock nodded soberly.

Lestrade nodded his head in the direction of the door. "Well, don't keep her waiting!"

Dimmock eagerly scampered off like an excited little dog. Lestrade just chuckled.

* * *

Mycroft's car pulled up just as Lestrade himself was leaving the Yard. He opened the door this time, instead of simply powering down the window. "Dinner, Inspector?" he smiled.

Lestrade smiled back. "I'm starving."

They drove to a cozy little diner, not too fancy, not too local. They sipped reservedly at wine as they waited for their orders to be delivered.

"So..." Lestrade prompted as he removed his wine glass from his mouth and licked his lips nervously. "...Is this, like, a date?"

Mycroft inclined his head a degree or two. "I suppose it may be classifed as such."

Lestrade rolled his eyes and smiled. "You know, a simple 'yes' could've sufficed."

"It could've, but what's the fun in that?" Mycroft's fingers fidgeted on the stem of his glass.

Their food came just at the break in their conversation and they began eating. Lestrade told Mycroft about Dimmock's date and Mycroft told Lestrade about his earlier talk with Sherlock.

"'Beaten by your own umbrella, choked to death with that horrible chocolate cake you love, and run over by your precious cars'?" Lestrade smirked. "Wow, Mycroft, never heard that one before."

"He was quite... _vehement_ about his absolute loathing of me." Mycroft shrugged.

"He'll get over it." Lestrade said encouragingly.

"I've been waiting for that moment his entire life." Mycroft sighed in a long-suffering way.

Lestrade just laughed.

* * *

Mycroft dropped Lestrade off at his flat and Lestrade was not in the least surprised to see his car already parked at his usual spot. He climbed out of the vehicle and smiled at Mycroft. "I had a great time, Mycroft, thanks."

Mycroft smiled back. "The pleasure was all mine." He moved to close the door.

"And the rose was lovely." Lestrade continued, causing Mycroft to stop and listen. "Well, ...both were." he amended.

"I am glad you enjoyed them." Mycroft nodded and moved to close the car door again.

"And the vase!" Lestrade called out just before the door slammed closed and Mycroft pulled it all the way open again.

"Best porcelain in the country, no doubt." Mycroft replied with a dry look.

"Sorry, I'm just pulling your leg." Lestrade chuckled.

"Forgiven." Mycroft shook his head with an amused smile and swung the car door shut... nearly. He opened it again. "No interruption this time?" His expression was so cool that butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.

Lestrade laughed. "Not this time, don't worry."

"Oh, thank God." Mycroft closed the door finally and the car drove off.

Lestrade just shook his head at Mycroft's antics and chuckled.

* * *

Roses continued to be sent to Lestrade after that. Every single one a brilliant velvet crimson with the thorns sawed off. That is, until Lestrade decided that he had had enough of all the giggling and whispering of the other coppers and retaliated by sending all sorts of flowers to Mycroft's desk until Mycroft agreed to stop, complaining that the garish yellow sunflower, large, healthy, trimmed a foot under the bud and plopped messily into a glass, was obstructing his view of his desk.

Lestrade had been slightly disappointed... he had been going for the Venus Flytrap next, afterall.


	77. Wonderful

Wonderful

Lestrade scribbled his name on his report for the thousanth time and flung it onto the 'finished' paper pile on his desk with as much abhorrence and prejudice as can be directed at a single piece of paper.

His phone buzzed with an incoming message.

_Your signature is unique. -MH_

Lestrade peered over to the page and grunted. Only the capitalized 'G' and 'L' plus the 't' were legible.

_You've never noticed? -Lestrade_

With great reluctance, he reached over and snagged another report. His phone buzzed again.

_I think your own uniqueness has overshadowed it until now. -MH_

Lestrade let out a faux-indignant noise.

_Weird is good, strange is bad, and odd is when you don't know which to call someone. -Lestrade_

_Invalid arguement. I called you 'unique'. -MH_

_Same thing. -Lestrade_

_Hardly. -MH_

_You're unique. Figure that one out! -Lestrade_

_... -MH_

_So you **were** making fun of me! Haha. I win! -Lestrade_

* * *

Mycroft was sitting silently, reading a book in his reserved seat in the Diogenes Club by a window. He did not read much fiction, didn't really have any interest in it at all, in fact. But today had been excessively taxing on his nerves and the constant interference from the MI5 on his business did not help any.

He had randomly picked up a volume of Harry Potter that had been lying unattended on a coffeetable nearby and had started flipping through it idly.

He had skimmed through a good third of the book when a blinding flash startled him.

Lestrade was standing outside the window with his phone, obnoxiously sticking his tongue out at him, conveying his triumph at catching Mycroft reading Harry Potter. With all those 'Hogwarts' jibes about his work, it had to happen sometime. The infuriating man grinned, almost looking proud of himself. He waved leisurely as if he wasn't aware of everybody in the room staring at him oddly.

Mycroft bit back a sigh and covered his face in his hand, wondering that if he ignored Lestrade long enough, he'd get bored and leave.

He didn't. He just stood there patiently, hands in trouser pockets, idly bouncing on the balls of his feet, waiting for Mycroft to stop ignoring him.

People began to talk inside the Diogenes Club.

Mycroft wanted to disappear from the Universe.

He hunted for a pen and paper.

_Get out! Before you get yourself into trouble._

He wrote hurriedly on a newspaper, his letters looping elegantly diagonal, and held it up for Lestrade to see.

Lestrade pulled out his police issued notebook.

DON'T WORRY! SECURITY'S ALREADY ALERTED TO MY PRESENCE!

Lestrade's blocky capital letters shouted. He grinned. Ten seconds later, he took off at a run to avoid security. Mycroft shook his head and hid a smile behind his hand and wondered if he had gotten himself in too deep with this man.

BY THE WAY... DOES THIS PLACE HAVE A FIRE ALARM?

A minute later, one of the security staff distastefully peeled the torn note from off the window pane where it was stuck on by a wad of mint gum.

* * *

"Anthea, do make sure the Prime Minister gets my message. It is imperitive that he takes action immediately." Anthea typed out a note on her Blackberry. "And our business friend in China, feed him just enough bait to keep him on the hook until I find the time to reel him in properly." The PA nodded. "And where did that file from the CIA go?"

"In your desk drawer. Right hand." Anthea reminded him crisply.

"Of course." Mycroft nodded.

Anthea looked up. "Sir?"

Mycroft blinked at her. "Yes?"

"What of that dinner party you had been invited to?" Anthea motioned to the invitation card on Mycroft's desk.

"Ah..." Mycroft almost sighed. "Mrs. Lilypots." He brushed a hand over his brow and rubbed wearily at an eye. "Tell her I'm not feeling quite up to it."

"This is the third invitation you've declined, Sir." Anthea warned him.

Mycroft sighed heavily. "Very well, let us humor her."

"Just to be polite." Anthea smirked at him.

"She talks of nothing but her late husband and her twenty-some cats." Mycroft complained.

"If it makes you feel any better, Sir." Anthea said with a mysterious smile. "Lestrade dropped by about five minutes ago with doughnuts."

Mycroft blinked. "And you didn't tell me?"

Anthea shrugged back. "He was on his way to a crime scene and he didn't want to impose on your very busy schedule."

Mycroft opened his mouth, then closed it.

"He also brought coffee." Anthea added. "Said something about you complaining about a caffeine withdrawal?" She raised her eyebrow daintily.

Mycroft blew out a breath and slouched in his seat. "That man is a godsend."

"Arn't you a lucky one?" Anthea smirked back.

"I think we can afford to take a break for a few minutes." Mycroft said, looking around at his paperwork cluttered desk.

"Coffee break," Anthea allowed magnimoniously. "and then we'll figure out what to do with the U.S Ambassador."

"Agreed."

* * *

"Hey! Stop!" Lestrade shouted as his suspect dashed off down the street.

He and Donovan pursued for a good block or so before realizing the inevitable loss of their suspect without some sort of divine interventi-...

_Crash!_

He and Donovan skidded to a halt at the spot where their suspect lay rolling around on the street moaning and cursing in agony. Lestrade took one look at the man and came to the conclusion that the only damage he had recieved was a blow to his ego... and maybe a twisted ankle.

The man was lucky. Car crashes were nasty things, it could've easily been worse.

The car that had glanced the man off the street now opened and a deceptively baffled-looking government agent stepped out, clutching a handkerchief to his brow in faux distress.

"Mycroft?" Lestrade exclaimed incredulously.

"Unfortunately so." Mycroft had the audacity to act contrite about the whole matter. "I'm afraid this is my fault entirely. I was in quite a rush when this gentleman suddenly flew out in front of the car."

Donovan cuffed their suspect and dragged him off into their car.

"Horrible business." Mycroft sniffed. "Is he hurt badly?"

Lestrade glanced back to Donovan and their suspect. "No, I don't think so."

"Oh, good." Mycroft nodded. "Well, as I said; I'm in a hurry. So, if you will excuse me?"

"It's against the law to flee a car crash, Mycroft." Lestrade reminded.

"Oh, is it?" Mycroft hummed thoughtlessly. "Let me worry about that, then. It was wonderful to see you, Gregory."

Then, he got back in his car... and fled the scene.

Lestrade wasn't even surprised when the reports on the case claimed that the suspect tripped and fell and that the police took that opportunity to apprehend him.

No mention of a car was made.

* * *

Mycroft walked through the deserted halls of New Scotland Yard. It was amazing that a building so loud and active in the daytime could be so quiet after the day wasted away. He was here because he had planned to get a bite to eat with Lestrade between the copper going home to sleep and himself boarding a plane to Spain.

Unfortunately, Mycroft had shown up at the restaurant they had designated. Lestrade hadn't.

Mycroft worried.

He rapped lightly on Lestrade's office door before letting himself in. He stepped into the quiet office and snorted a little, a small smile growing on his face.

Lestrade was fast asleep, face down, cheek squashed on his crossed arms on the desk. His mouth was open a fraction of an inch and his chest rose and fell rhythmically.

Mycroft gently pried the pen from Lestrade's limp fingers, brushed a strand of hair away from his forehead, and called Jason, his driver.

Ten minutes later, Jason arrived with the car. Mycroft glanced at his watch with a frown.

Jason was given orders to take the slumbering man home while Mycroft took a cab, for the first time in his life, to Heathrow.

* * *

"I dare you to do it."

Mycroft glared across the table at Lestrade. "No."

"Just a little." Lestrade wheedled.

"If I give you an inch, you'll take a mile." Mycroft droned. "No."

"It's just fish and chips, Mycroft!" Lestrade rolled his eyes, dipping his hand into that horrible, greasy, God-knows-how-old, newspaper cone.

Mycroft shuddered. "No. Absolutely not."

"Just once." Lestrade bargained. "Please? Like a normal bloke?"

Mycroft crossed his arms primly. "Alright." Lestrade's eyes lit up. "I'll eat that unhygenic food... if you agree to taste escargot."

Lestrade gagged. "Mycroft! Gross!"

"Exactly." Mycroft smirked, turning his nose up a little in triumph.

"All I'm asking is for you to eat some goddamn fish and chips! I'm not asking you to eat a snail!"

Mycroft raised his eyebrows.

Lestrade pouted back. "You're stubborn."

"Pot meet kettle." Mycroft threw back coolly.

* * *

Lestrade sniffed and rubbed a tear from the corner of his eye. "You're heartless." he croaked to Mycroft, who was still dry-eyed and expressionless.

"I'm not made of marshmallow inside." Mycroft replied simply, snagging a tissue paper delicately out of the box with the tips of his fingers and handed it to Lestrade without looking.

Lestrade blew his nose. "Seriously, how can you not cry?" he asked, tossing his used tissue paper into the garbage bin.

"A man's being tortured and getting his guts cut out." Mycroft pointed out flatly.

Lestrade sniffed and sent him a dark glare.

"Oh, now they cut off his head. Awfully violent movie, isn't it?" Mycroft remarked.

"It's Braveheart."

"Yes, you've told me many times."

"You really know how to spoil a good movie, don't you?" Lestrade wiped his nose. "Heartless, absolutely heartless."

"There, there." Mycroft sighed without much feeling.

"I refuse to believe it. We're watching the Titanic next time. I _will_ get you to cry at a movie, Mycroft."

"When pigs fly."

"I'll get Sherlock on it right away... for science."

* * *

"I can't believe the nerve-...!" Lestrade sucked in a deep breath and held it for a moment before letting it out.

"That's it, calm down." Donovan encouraced.

"It's not actually working." Lestrade retorted flatly and stalked out to where he had parked his car.

"It's weird, you getting angry at Sherlock and me calming you down." Donovan remarked.

"We've been at this guy for weeks! And right when we're about to get him, Sherlock, who wasn't even _on_ the case, bungles it all up!" Lestrade threw his hands up. "Just my luck!"

"We'll get him next time." Donovan said.

"No we won't. We won't get another chance, and you know it." Lestrade rubbed a hand across his tense forehead and sighed. "He's probably halfway across the Atlantic by now."

"Hardly, Inspector." Lestrade whirled around to see Mycroft stepping out of a car. "He barely reached the Tube, in fact."

He pulled the door all the way open and tipped their suspect out of the vehicle and onto the pavement. He was cuffed, gagged, and very angry. Donovan left to get a few officers to help bring him in.

"Mycroft, your brother is-..." Lestrade gestured wildly with his hands, gave up his manic pantomime, and let out a strangled noise of frustration.

"Quite, I think so too." Mycroft hummed with a half-amused, half-sympathetic smile. "In fact, that's _exactly_ what I think of him sometimes."

Lestrade huffed and looked apologetic. "Sorry. _Long_ day."

"So I've heard from Anthea." Mycroft nodded.

"I see you've stepped up from running our suspects over with your car, to catching them." Lestrade teased.

"Would you prefer I continued maiming them?" Mycroft asked back, eyebrow raised.

Lestrade let out a small huff of a laugh. "No."

They trailed off into silence. "Coffee?"

Lestrade began declining, then changed his mind to protesting about the timing, changed his mind again and hung his head with a sigh, defeated. "Yeah. I'd like that." he nodded sheepishly.

"Let's go, then." Mycroft chuckled at him, seeing Donovan reappearing in the distance. "I believe your sergeant has everything under control here."

Lestrade glanced over his shoulder. "Yeah, alright. Let's go. Now, now." He ushered Mycroft back in the car before jumping in after him like a man who has just been seen committing a crime. "Before the cops come." He deadpanned.

Mycroft just laughed. Life was wonderful.


	78. Drugged

Drugged

"Oh, no." Lestrade groaned. "All rationality has left the building."

Donovan responded dryly as she walked into his office. "Sir, get your consulant off the desk."

Sherlock looked up, blinking blearily at them. "What? Why? What did I do?" Said the man who was sitting on Lestrade's desk... shoeless, with his shirt rolled up just above his navel for some odd reason or another.

"I'm worried." Lestrade told him, half honest.

"Don't be." Sherlock frowned, rocking back and forth. "I've got a doctor with me, he really is very good at-... at doctoring."

"You're being annoying." Donovan hazarded.

"No more than usu-_argh_!" Sherlock overbalanced his rocking and promptly tumbled off the desk.

"Well." Lestrade crossed his arms. "He's off the desk."

"And now he's on the floor." Donovan looked at John, who was sitting in a chair, giggling at Sherlock. "What the bloody Hell happened to them, Sir?" she asked.

"On a case. Drugs bust. Butter fingers." Lestrade intoned gravely. "That's all I can tell you."

Donovan raised her eyebrow at him. "You mean, that's all you gleaned from their nonsense babble?" she asked perceptively.

Lestrade let out a heavy sigh. "Yeah."

"Shit."

"Uh, huh." Lestrade nodded at his sergeant. "Exactly."

* * *

"So, forensics found out where the Baker Street Duo were when they were doused with the drugs, the flat belongs to a man named Davy Haddock who has been reported missing since the incident." Donovan told Lestrade when he walked in the room.

"Alright." Lestrade nodded. "I had Mycroft hack into Sherlock's e-mail account - don't tell him - and he got me the data on the case Sherlock was working on."

"And how are they?" Donovan asked, referring to John and Sherlock.

"I put them back in Baker Street with Mrs. Hudson. Mycroft told me he'd send down one of his doctors to take a look at them, make sure they're alright." Lestrade replied. "Sherlock was singing 'The Elements Song' over and over, he was cursing John for making him listen to it."

Donovan laughed. "Oh, I'd kill to see that."

"I'll send you the name, time, and address later." Lestrade joked with a smirk. "I've got every second of it on my phone."

"Deal."

* * *

"I cannot apologize enough for my brother's behavior." Mycroft sighed contritely to Mrs. Hudson after his doctor had phoned him, telling him that Sherlock had stoutly refused to undergo an examination.

"Oh, don't be so sorry, dear." Mrs. Hudson tutted. "It's just Sherlock."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

The front door opened and Lestrade rushed in. "Am I late?"

"You're just in time, Gregory." Mrs. Hudson smiled at the copper. "Sherlock hasn't even seen his brother yet."

Mycroft looked at Lestrade. "You seemed pressed for time."

"I was hoping to get here before you and Sherlock finished up business." Lestrade shrugged and pulled out his handy phone. "My blackmail stash is running low. You know how it is."

"I despair, Gregory, that you cannot find better entertainment than watching me try to contain my brother's drugged madness." Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"I'm hard to please." Lestrade shrugged unapologetically. "Five more minutes and Anthea will be here with the popcorn."

"Then I'd best get to it." Mycroft sighed in exasperation.

He dragged his feet up the stairs, Lestrade followed a good five paces behind, and Mrs. Hudson crept up the stairs behind them.

Mycroft rapped the upstairs flat door smartly with the handle of his umbrella and opened the door, walking in without being invited. "Sherlock-..."

_Wham!_ The Union Jack cushion drove itself into Mycroft's solar plexis, knocking the air out of the man.

"Leave me be, Emissary of Satan!" Sherlock thundered with a righteous anger, standing tall on the coffeetable in his blue robe like an avenging angel, hair sticking out every which way.

Mycroft vaguely heard Lestrade bursting out into uproarious laughter behind him.

"Sherlock! What have I told you about manners?" John exclaimed, torn between mortification and the utter hilarity of the situation.

"That mine are horribly atrocious." Sherlock replied tersely. "Why bother, John?"

"Sherlock, I'm sure acts of fratricide are looked down upon in the the twentieth century." Mrs. Hudson tutted blithely.

It made Mycroft wonder if the woman knew of a time where acts of fratricide, any act of murder at all, was _not_ looked down on.

Lestrade caught his gaze and smiled as if recalling a joke. "Trust me, Mycroft, don't ask questions you don't want to know the answer to."

Mycroft rubbed his stomache and grimaced. "I will keep that in mind." He blew out a breath. "However did you manage him during his addict years-... no, before you answer that, tell me how you managed him in his rehabilitation period."

Lestrade laughed. "Trade secret."

"This may very well be a life and death situation." Mycroft ground back, gripping his umbrella handle tight.

"Then you'll have to work hard for it." Lestrade smirked. Mycroft sent him a baleful look and Lestrade's eyes softened. "He's your brother, Mycroft. Learn. It's about time you did."

Mycroft's shoulders sagged. "I hate it when you put me to shame, Gregory." he sighed.

Sherlock was beginning to sing The Elements Song again.

"You are a man of Herculean patience."

Something spontaneously combusted in the kitchen to John's horror and Sherlock's delight.

Lestrade chuckled. "The only thing stronger is my will to live."

"I won't even try to question that."

* * *

"So, how did the Baker Street visit go?" Anthea asked when she showed up to take Mycroft back to wherever he went when he left by car.

"Good." Lestrade glanced at where Mycroft was drooping and beginning to doze off in the back passenger seat. "I think he handled it pretty well."

"He looks exhausted." Anthea frowned.

"It's Sherlock." Lestrade shrugged. "On drugs. For a good few hours." He grimaced. "He'll probably sleep for the next seven hours straight."

"It's more hours than he usually gets." Anthea pursed her pretty lips. "I guess he needs it."

"You'll be proud to know," Lestrade told her, "that, in all that time, Mycroft had only tried to seriously kill Sherlock seven times."

"Seven?" Anthea blinked. "Is Sherlock still alive?"

"He's got John, Mrs. Hudson, me, and Mummy Holmes to consider." Lestrade smiled. "He wouldn't have actually done it. Maim? Possibly. Kill him? No. It would only put him out of his misery. Mycroft's got at least ten year's worth of blackmail material on him now."

Anthea smiled back proudly. "That's my boss."

* * *

"Davy Haddock, you are under arrest for the possession of unauthorized, and illegal, narcotics..." Lestrade tuned out at that as he absently snapped cuffs around Haddock's wrists.

In afterthought, it wasn't a very good idea to space out while apprehending a criminal. Lestrade realized that very well when Haddock suddenly threw his head back, hitting him square in the face with the back of his head.

"Oh, son-of-a-...!" The force of the blow sent them both stumbling backward and down the steps from the second floor landing where Haddock's flat was situated.

Lestrade let out a groan when he finally came to a rolling stop at the bottom of the stair case. He could hear Haddock beside him, moaning in agony, not in much better shape than he.

Lestrade raised a shaky hand to a sharp ache on the back of his head and groaned when it came away red.

"Oh, bollocks...!"

* * *

"Sir." Anthea coughed as unintrusively as possible to distract Mycroft from his meeting.

Mycroft smiled to his associates and excused himself before breaking off from the group. He approached Anthea. "What is it, Anthea? I'm very busy."

"I know, and I'm sorry, Sir. But it was an emergency." Anthea told him apologetically.

"What is it?" Mycroft asked, the beginnings of concern toying at his face. "What happened?"

"There was an accident." Anthea said slowly, every intonation measured carefully. "It's Lestrade."

Mycroft's heart dropped into his stomache. "Anthea, please don't tell me he's dead."

Anthea blinked. "Oh no, Sir."

Mycroft blinked back.

"In fact, it's just the opposite. The doctors at the hospital feel that they can't contain him."Anthea explained.

Mycroft looked just plain confused. "Are you sure? Gregory would listen to his doctors if he felt they were in the right."

"He's on pain meds."

"Oh."

"Yes." Anthea nodded soberly. "Also, he likes you very much."

Mycroft blushed. "Really?"

"Yes, he's been telling the gynecologist all about it."

Mycroft was stunned into silence.

"Don't ask, Sir. They've put him on the good stuff."


	79. Stealing

Stealing

The man lay on his stomache in the narrow air vent that was his home for the last three hours. He was perfectly still, arms crossed in front of him, head settled on them comfortably in the imitation of a man sleeping.

A timer set into the wrist guard of his smooth latex gloves buzzed soundlessly three times and the digital numbers on the gadget glowed dimly.

_2:00 a.m._

Slowly, the man began stirring. First flexing his fingers, rotating his wrists, and moving his legs, encouraging his blood to continue circulating.

He pulled out an iphone from a thigh pocket and double checked the security control room. All employees logged out and accounted for. Excellent.

He braced his hands on the surface of the air vent under him and pushed himself forward inch by inch until he reached the grating on the bottom of the duct that he had previously marked out.

He had unscrewed the bolts earlier on and the grate was held in place only by a sticky playdough-ish substance that seemed to do the trick very well indeed.

All it took was a small, sharp jerk to remove the grating. Practically soundless.

The man carefully placed the grate on the far side of the opening and folded himself out of his narrow hiding place.

His black full-body suit was plastered skin-tight against him. He winced with every time he compared himself to Catwoman, he meant no offence to the fictional master thief, but _he_ was the real deal... and he was very male. He resented being instinctively called 'Catwoman' on the rare cases that he was spotted.

He slipped through the shadows, still sulking over his Catwoman problem, over to the exhibit he had come tonight to visit.

"Hello, beautiful." He smirked under his breath in smooth cultured tones when his sweeping flashlight illuminated the painting with a soft, milky glow.

He had to be careful for the motion sensor above the painting. The thief procured a crisply folded white bedsheet, freshly bought from the local store, DNA evidence of countless potential buyers sticking to the surface like germs.

He shook the bedsheet out over himself and slowly, carefully, stretched it out over himself and the painting, nailing it to the wall above the picture frame. Although, the science behind why the bedsheet absorbs ultrasonic waves and thus renders the motion sensor useless evaded the thief, he had seen it done on Mythbusters and through trial-and-error, proved that this information was true and priceless to his occupation.

Now. He let out a satisfied sigh. _Now_, he could work in peace.

There was a soft _'thoop'_ sound of a suction cup being operated against the glass separating him from the painting and the thief began the tedious task of cutting the glass pane away from the frame.

When the deed was done, the thief took hold of the suction cup handle, gingerly removed the glass whole from the frame, and stood it up against the wall before disengaging the suction and putting it away.

Then, he meticulously cut the painting itself and peeled it away from the frame, curling it up in his gloved hands and sliding it into a cylinder case.

All that was left to do was to exit the way he had come in.

Safely outside the museum, the thief opened a guitar case that he had hidden earlier and donned casual jeans and a hoodie over his black thieving garb and stashed his newly aqcuired art piece inside the guitar case just when he thought he heard a bang.

His hands froze for a stunned moment before he resumed working and slung the strap over his shoulder, walking away.

Just another musician, don't mind me.

* * *

"Oh, for the love of God!" Lestrade groaned when his phone rang. "I just got to bed!" he complained, checking the clock on his nightstand.

It was two thirty in the morning. Two hours after he had abandoned his office at midnight and had come home.

The tinny, nagging voice on the other end continued jabbering in his ear.

"What? Art theft?" Lestrade spluttered. "If you haven't noticed, it's _not my division!_ I don't handle art thefts!"

More staccato chatters.

"Alright. Fine. I'll be there in half an hour."

And Lestrade hung up.

* * *

"So, what have we here?" Lestrade asked groggily as he took another gulp of coffee.

"Gunshots were heard at roughly two fifteen this morning, the security guards on duty came running, and they found..." Donovan waved her arm toward the corpse lying on cold marble flooring. Red blood in sharp contrast to the marble white. "...this."

Lestrade nodded and caught sight of what looked, for no better comparison, like a bedsheet fort covering a picture frame a few feet away.

He regarded it for a thoughtful moment before asking, "What the Hell's that?"

Donovan nodded soberly. "It's a bedsheet, Sir."

Lestrade rolled his eyes at her. "Yeah, I can see that."

"That would be precautions against the motion detectors, Inspector." A voice said from behind them.

Lestrade and Donovan whirled around to find a large man with wide shoulders and salt-and-pepper hair looming over them, staring down his nose through his spectacles at them.

Lestrade coughed. "And you are...?"

"Stephen Barnhart." The man introduced himself. "International Art Theft Investigation Specialist." He rattled off wearily with the air of a man who had repeated this particular line many times. "...Interpol." he added as an afterthought.

"Interpol, huh?" Lestrade grunted, shaking the man's hand. "M.O?"

"Daring." Barnhart said as if that explained everything. "Most career career criminals would have special tools and gadgets to work with, most don't very much like the idea of being caught, you understand."

"And this thief?" Donovan asked.

"Uses common household items." Barnhart motioned to the bedsheet. "Like this. Practically anything that anybody could get their hands on. The more people who leave DNA on his tools, the better. You probably won't find much of anything on the bedsheet... or, well, maybe you'll find _too much_. Cheap tools make for easy acquires and easy losses, but alot more falible than advanced technology. Hacking into the security control room to mess up the incoming data is alot more secure than avoiding the cameras by coming in through the vents and hiding under bedsheets to fool motion sensors-... speaking of which," he said to one of the security guards loitering uselessly nearby, "I thought there were supposed to be vibration sensors on the paintings?"

"Uh, yes..." the man squeaked nervously under Barnhart's stern glare. "But it was malfunctioning and-..."

"'Malfunctioning'?" Barnhart cut him off.

"Y-yes." The man nodded jerkily. "Gone off at random times for no reason... five times in the last two months alone. We had it taken out for repairs since yesterday."

"According to plan." Lestrade drawled around his sip of coffee. He turned and frowned at the dead body on the floor a few feet away from them. "What do you know about his thief?"

Barnhart followed his gaze and sniffed. "Male, tall, six feet-ish, copper-red hair, not averse to dying it, though." He fell silent for a moment in contemplation. "I doubt he's your killer, though, Inspector." he said slowly. "Sure, our thief's had a record of assault in the cases when he's had to make a quick escape... Hell, I've had my fair share of being tased by him, but to our knowledge he's never utilized any sort of firearm before. It's not his style. He sticks strictly to tasers, pepper spray, and hand-to-hand combat. Like I said; he uses tools and skills that could be obtained by anybody."

Lestrade sighed. "So, we're looking for two criminals? My day's just getting better an better."

"I'll have a casefile on our thief sent to your office, Inspector-...?" Barnhart trailed off.

"Lestrade." Lestrade told him. "Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade of the New Scotland Yard."

"Of course." Barnhart nodded affably and excused himself.

Donovan rubbed an eye. "I need a freakin' nap, Sir."

Lestrade sighed back. "I know. Me too." He took a sip of his coffee, now cool and bitter. "Why can't people commit crimes in decent times of the day?"

"I know. Unforgivable." Donovan nodded back grimly.


	80. Seducing

Seducing

"This... is a file?" Lestrade stared incredulously at the three large boxes on his desk.

"Alright," Barnhart conceeded, "It's decidedly a little more than just 'a file'. We've been on this man's tail for a while now since he first popped up on the police's radar in 1993. Hundreds of thefts make for hundreds of casefiles, you see." The large man shrugged helplessly.

_Hundreds of thefts..._ Lestrade just smiled wincingly and resisted the urge to ask the Interpol agent why this thief hadn't been caught yet.

"You must be wondering why we haven't caught him yet." Barnhart said, causing Lestrade to look up at him, slightly guiltily, Barnhart pretended not to notice. "You must not look at his M.O and assume that he is an amateur, Inspector." he chided. "It is quite the opposite, in fact. He is too good of a thief to need sophisticated tools of trade. He likes playing with our agents, giving himself a disadvantage to make it easier for us to catch him. And yet, we never have. A fact that I am, quiet honestly, ashamed of."

"You been on this case for long?" Lestrade asked him as he began flipping through files.

"Interpol took an interest in the case in 2000 when he undertook his first heist in the United States." Barnhart shrugged his shoulders. "I was still just a probationary agent at the time, but it was passed down to me seven years later."

"Enlightening." Lestrade hummed into his file. Whether he was referring to something he read, or if he was still listening to Barnhart, the Interpol agent didn't know.

And Lestrade never told him.

* * *

"He doesn't stay in one place for too long after a heist." Lestrade said on the phone to Mycroft when he returned to his flat that day. "He's probably halfway to the Bahamas by now."

_"Ah, unfortunate."_ Mycroft sighed back. _"And, how far have you gotten with the murder case?"_

"Still too little evidence to prove that our thief didn't do it, so we're not ruling the possibility out yet." Lestrade toed off his shoes in his bedroom and sat on his bed with a sigh of relief, thankful to finally be off his feet after a long day.

_"Hm, well, I guess there is nothing to be done about it."_ Mycroft hummed. _"Anyway, Anthea is telling me that I have an urgent call to take. Goodnight, Gregory."_

"Night." Lestrade called back and hung up.

He tossed his phone onto the nightstand and changed into comfortable sweat pants and a loose T-shirt before wandering into the kitchen looking for something to eat.

Ten minutes later, he remembered about his dirty clothes, scattered messily on his bedroom floor and returned, half a ham sandwich in one hand, to retrieve them.

... He was not expecting to have a late night visitor creep into his house through his bedroom window.

Startled chocolate-brown eyes stared into equally startled grey-blue eyes.

Then, there was the sound of a taser crackling and Lestrade instinctively threw whatever he had on hand at the intruder... his sandwich.

"Oh, _ew_!" The intruder yelped, batting the hapless meal away in mid-air with the back of his free hand, a look of slight disapproval mixed with amusement glittering in his eyes.

Lestrade took that moment of distraction to land a hard punch to the man's face, followed by him grabbing the man's shoulders, pistoning his knee into the man's stomache, before he flung the man face-first into the wall.

There was a loud _'boom'_ and a pained _'Oof!'_ and the taser clattered to the ground.

Lestrade lunged after it but sinewy arms like iron bands clamped around his torso and upper arms from behind, holding him back, fingers scrabbling mid-air just a few inches short of the electronic.

"Inspector!" The intruder called laughingly against his back. "As unbelieveable as the circumstances are, I don't actually wish you any harm!"

Lestrade bucked and threw his head back, making violent contact with the man's nose. The man fell away with a pained grunt and Lestrade grasped the fallen taser.

He fumbled with it a little in his haste and pushed the button trigger.

Nothing happened.

Lestrade blinked and tried again. Still no response.

"It's fingerprint sensitive. It won't work unless you've got my fingerprints." The intruder ground out with a cough as he stumbled to his feet.

"That doesn't make any sense!" Lestrade said. "You're wearing gloves, it wouldn't pick up your fingerprints either." he pointed out.

"There's a fake latex fingerprint etched on my gloved trigger finger." The man sighed wearily, holding out his hand. "Give it here."

Lestrade held the stun gun away with a snort. "Uh-uh, not going to happen-..." He narrowed his eyes at the intruder's black, leather/latex suit. "...Catwoman." he blurted. "Er... man-... person." He recognized the physical profile that Barnhart had given him. "...Thief."

The man rolled his eyes up toward the ceiling with a heavy sigh. "Don't even start, Darling."

Lestrade scowled, still holding the thief's taser as if he was contemplating on bludgeoning him. "I'm only not going to say anything about this whole 'Darling' business because I'm trying to figure out how 'Not meaning me any harm' equates trying to _taser_ me."

The thief slowly raised his hands to head level, fingers spread, showing empty palms. "If you must know, Inspector, you took me quite by surprise." he smiled in amusement.

"_I_ took you by surprise?" Lestrade sqwawked indignantly. "_You're_ the one who broke into _my_ flat!"

"And for that, I apologize." The man said smoothly, not in the least deterred by Lestrade's outburst. "I wished to speak to you but, you must understand, I don't often feel comfortable in police stations."

"And you wanted to talk to me, why?" Lestrade asked cautiously.

"Well, there is that whole unfortunate business of someone being killed at the place of - _on_ the night of - my heist." The thief shrugged his shoulders.

"And why is that your concern?" Lestrade frowned.

"I know that there is no way I can convince you of my innocence to the crime, but I didn't do it." The thief sighed.

"So why are you _here_?" Lestrade growled. "Mister Barnhart is the one who believes you are innocent, not me."

"Which is the precise reason I am _here_, and not _there_." The intruder chuckled lightly. "I was going to offer my assistance on the case, although..." And suddenly, he was no longer on the other side of the room. In a split second, he crossed the space between them and crowded Lestrade.

Lestrade jumped back in surprise, plastering himself against the wall suddenly with a yelp. Two latex-gloved hands planted themselves on the wall on both sides of Lestrade's head and the thief was suddenly. Right. There.

"...If I had known you were such an attractive man, I would've come and offered my... _assistance..._ sooner." The thief almost purred inches from Lestrade's face. "It seems I have been remiss in my own investigations."

Lestrade blinked, stunned. "Uh..." Then he sensed movement to his right and lashed out at the thief but he was already dancing just out of reach. "Ah-_hah_! You were going for the taser, wern't you!" Lestrade accused, waving the taser aloft.

"Ugh, it was worth the shot, wasn't it?" The thief shot back with a slight grimace marring his smooth face, planting both hands on his hips. "I like that taser, it feels like letting another man drive my car. I'd like it back."

"You almost had me." Lestrade smirked.

Suddenly, a sly smile crept ghost-like across the thief's face. He lunged forward at the same moment Lestrade swung the taser at him like a club, blocked the blow with his arm, snatched the offending wrist, and shoved Lestrade back into the wall with a creak of protesting plaster.

"Or, maybe I just wanted to seduce you." was purred low and husky near Lestrade's ear.

Lestrade flinched and shuddered when he felt lips, soft and warm, press against his chapped ones. The thief pulled back with a triumphant smirk, toying his taser in his spidery fingers.

Only then did Lestrade notice that it was no longer in his hand.

"Oi, that's not fair...!" Lestrade protested when he shook himself out of his stunned state.

"Who said I played fair, gorgeous?" The man smiled coyly. He ran a latex covered thumb over his lower lip with a twinkle in his eye.

And then he was gone, slipping like a shadow out of Lestrade's window, his last words to the detective echoing like a ghost.

"Stealing, after all, is my speciality."

"Um-... j-just in case you care to know..." Lestrade stammered with a grimace at his empty flat. "...I have a boyfriend and I feel that the kiss was definitely uncalled for."

Not like the thief could hear him by that time.

And Lestrade had the sinking feeling that he wouldn't care, either.

He dropped his head in his hands.

How was this his life?


	81. Inspired

Inspired

"Alright," Lestrade growled into his coffee cup as he slid around the corner of his desk to sit down, "let's get this done."

Donovan nodded soberly and turned to the miniature murder board that was always in Lestrade's office when they were on a case. "Okay, this is our victim." She pointed to a picture of a slightly plump man with a receeding hairline and mournful puppy-dog eyes. "He's Fredrick Neeson, a private security consultant. He was shot, point blank, in the chest at roughly two thirty-ish. He was working on upgrading the works, lived in Sussex, getting a full biography now."

"When was he last seen?" Lestrade asked her.

Donovan drew out a timeline on the bottom of the murder board. "Neeson was last seen at twelve thirty, leaving the building, the security guard saw him leave and logged him out."

"Was he with anyone?" Lestrade flipped open his police notebook.

"He left alone, but he was there for business. One of the security guards mentioned hearing some arguing going on behind closed doors." Donovan informed him.

Lestrade perked up. "Who was arguing?"

Donovan smiled. "I hoped you'd ask." She put up another profile picture on the murder board. "Neeson was there to visit the building operator, Mister Daniel James." She pointed to the picture she just put up. "However, this was not who he was arguing with."

"Oh God, the _suspense_." Lestrade mock groaned, clutching his chest as he waited for Donovan to pin another picture up on the board.

"He was arguing with one of the curators, Annabell Stuart." Donovan said. "Nobody heard what was being argued about. And, when questioned about the arguement, Ms. Stuart denied that the arguement ever took place."

"Alright, you keep investigating our victim." Lestrade ordered. "Find out if he had any enemies, money problems, police records. I want this man's life under a microscope." He got up and grabbed his coat. "I'll go back to the crime scene and poke around in that environment. Maybe someone will know something they're not telling us."

Donovan nodded and they split.

* * *

"Mister Daniel James." Lestrade greeted the building operator.

"Inspector, I was told you were coming." James smiled back, shaking his hand. "Agent Barnhart was here earlier."

"Was he?" Lestrade smiled, feigning surprise. "I really do hope he found something that would help us with this case."

"Ah, yes." James nodded. "He took a look around, asked the pretty standard questions; where was the entry point? How did the thief get past the security cameras between the air vent and the painting? And such."

"Well, I hope you had alot to tell him." Lestrade smiled back thinly. "But I'm here on a murder investigation and I think my questions will be a little more different."

James's face suddenly clouded. "Yes, of course. If there's anything more I can do to help..."

"'Anything more'...?" Lestrade asked, brow furrowed.

"Yes, I just finished speaking to one of your sergeants..." James seemed to sense that something was off. "Is something the matter, Inspector?"

Lestrade shook his head. "I'm forgetful." he lied. "When did my sergeant turn up?"

"About half-an-hour ago. He took a short tour as he questioned the staff... he left just five minutes ago, I think." James replied.

Lestrade faked a smile. "Well, if you'll excuse me, I think I'll consult with my sergeant before I ask any questions and waste your valuable time."

Then he turned and walked out.

* * *

"You. Are. A. _Disease._ I can't get rid of you! What the Hell are you doing?" The thief, dressed in a non-descript work suit and black-rimmed glasses, glanced up from where he was sitting on a park bench, bent over a police issued notebook. He could pass as a college student.

Said college-student-looking thief leaned back leisurely in his seat and pulled his glasses up, propping them on his slicked back hair, now dyed black instead of its natural auburn hue. "Inspector." He smiled. "Fancy meeting you here. And, in answer to your question, I was investigating the murder. I _do_ have a reputation to keep, I would so hate being pinned as a murderer. It's bad for business, you know. I broke into your flat to offer my assistance on the case like I told you, unfortunately, I was not expecting to get pelted with ham sandwiches." he joked. "There is always some variable to a situation that I cannot predict, it seems. I felt the sudden urge to retreat for the time being and regroup my moral."

Lestrade growled under his breath, hands in pockets, feet planted firmly apart in his usual longsuffering/businesslike stance. "So, mind telling me what your Halloween costume is?"

Thin still-gloved fingers dipped smoothly into a breast pocket and a police ID was whisked into existance. The thief made a show of replacing his glasses on the bridge of his nose. "Um, yes. I would be Detective Sergeant Jason Raffles." He smiled sheepishly.

"J. Raffles." Lestrade deadpanned incredulously.

"No relation to the fictional gentleman thief A. J. Raffles, I assure you." Jason droned. "Although, I was slightly surprised that you managed to recognize me." He sounded a little put out.

"Are you kidding?" Lestrade groaned. "Every cop within a five mile radius would see that you don't belong. There's no way you could afford a watch like that on a copper's salary." He lifted Raffles's hand for a closer scrutiny.

"Perhaps I come from a rich family?" Raffles smiled back, plucking his hand away.

"Then everybody would know that you are some rich bloke's brat. You'd be infamous for it." Lestrade shrugged. "As it so happens, nobody recognizes you."

Raffles sniffed and removed his watch, slipping it into his trouser pocket. "Very clever, that was."

"Well hey, they don't pick your name out of a hat and issue you Inspector, do they?" Lestrade smirked back and began walking away.

"What?" Raffles stood, brushing away imaginary lint and smoothing out wrinkles in his suit. "Not going to arrest me?"

"I'm not naive enough to hope that my cuffs will hold someone who makes a living of opening locks, and I think it's better to keep you where I can see you." Lestrade sighed back, he spared a glance over his shoulder. "Coming, Raffles?"

Raffles seemed to contemplate the pros and cons for a moment before complying.

"But, don't misunderstand me." Lestrade continued when Raffles fell into step beside him. "I'll snap the cuffs on you when you least expect it."

Raffles's eyes lit up and a smile curved his mouth. "Oh, _really_?"

"Now don't get too excited." Lestrade rolled his eyes and huffed. "You didn't stick around long enough to hear last night, but I've got a boyfriend."

"Oh, don't worry." Raffles waved him off breezily. "I don't really care for monogamy. By the way, I believe our killer is Brians."

Lestrade blinked. "'Brians'?"

"Yes, one of the security guards." Raffles smiled serenely at Lestrade. "If you'd like, I've got proof. I think I'm quite good at this policeman business. I think you've inspired me. Maybe I should make a separate identity for an art theft prevention agent. That way, I'd have full access to the building blueprints, security protocols, and such before a heist. What do you think?"

Lestrade ignored Raffles's grand idea and thought instead about the new information Raffles gave him for a moment. "Legal, or illegally obtained evidence?"

"Very astute, Inspector." Raffles chuckled quietly. "But let's pretend you didn't ask that. As far as I'm concerned, I found the murder weapon in a garbage disposal in a back alley near Brians's flat."

"And motive?"

"Brians is the curator's - Annabell Stuart's - significant other." Raffles told him. "Our unfortunate victim, Fredrick Neeson, found out about a certain theft of his own, you see. Ms. Stuart was forging a few artifacts that were not in her custody, and replacing the originals. Not alot gets past me in the world of stolen artifacts, you understand." Lestrade nodded absently. "And when Neeson found out about it, he threatened her and tried to blackmail her."

"So, to keep him quiet, Ms. Stuart got her boyfriend to kill him." Lestrade finished. "That's why Ms. Stuart made such a commotion when arguing with Neeson. To keep the police's suspicion on her, knowing that she had a solid alibi for the time of death, but Brians didn't. And, being security, Brians would know how to slip past the other guards after his shift was over and he made sure he was seen leaving the premises."

Raffles smiled at him admiringly. "I see you're keeping up."

Lestrade looked at him oddly, then stopped walking abruptly and dropped his head in his hands. "Oh-... _oh God_." he groaned in despair. "You're one of _those_."

Raffles looked a little uncomfortable with all the strange looks they were recieving. "What do you mean, Inspector?"

Lestrade pulled out his phone. _Sherlock, got a minute? -Lestrade_

_Matters. On a case for Mycroft. Bloody National Security. Be free by tomorrow. -SH_

_Okay, make it quick. I want you to meet somebody. -Lestrade_

"Okay, here's what we're going to do." Lestrade said to Raffles as he put away his phone. "We're going to go down to the station - you can come in with me if you'd like, though I can't promise you won't be arrested - and I'm going to run ballistics on the gun you absolutely did not B&E to get, we're going to check Brians's alibi, we're going to tap an inside source to get proof of Ms. Stuart's fraudery... and then we'll figure out what to do with you."

"Sounds like a plan, Governor." Raffles smirked, firing off a leisurely salute.

"_Don't_ 'Governor' me." Lestrade glowered.

Raffles threw his hands up in the air. "First I can't 'Darling' you, and now I can't 'Governor' you?" he said, aghast. "You take all the fun out of life, Inspector."

"What can I say?" Lestrade rolled his eyes. "I'm a cop."

Raffles smiled back. "Touche."


	82. Introducing

Introducing

"Hello, I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade of the New Scotland Yard." was on repeat on Lestrade's tongue for the last hour or so.

When it became apparent to Barnhart that the painting Raffles stole had not yet left the country, it became his mission to keep things that way.

Lestrade hadn't seen Raffles since he got Lestrade evidence against both Brians and Ms. Stuart and helped clear his own name. His involvement was omitted from the case reports as per requirements for the thief's assistance.

Now, Barnhart called in several Art Crime teams and other such recovery agents to assist on the hunt for the painting. By the time Lestrade had finished being introduced to everybody, the word 'inspector' began to sound less and less like a word.

Some time later, Barnhart began the walkthrough of what he hypothesized happened on the night of the heist and murder. Lestrade just stared at the man's broad forehead and zoned out.

He had already listened to Raffles boast about how he had done the deed, but couldn't draw the information as to _where_ the painting was, from him.

But he had to give credit, Agent Barnhart knew how to do his job competently. He followed Raffles's footsteps through the scene step by bloody step.

Lestrade really had nothing to do in this meeting. He was a homicide detective, after all. He knew nothing about art theft. He supposed that it was nice of Barnhart to invite him because he was technically on a joint investigation with them.

He just sat there, listened, threw out a few opinions every so often, and made sure he fit right in.

He felt like it was his first day of school all over again.

His phone chimed. _Boring. -SH_

Thank you Sherlock.

He made a mental note to be fully occupied the next time Barnhart invited him to one of these meetings. It was a horrible thing to say, but he would take standing over a dead body any day over this.

* * *

"So, what did Mycroft want?" Lestrade asked when he finally found time to drop in at Baker Street.

"Oh, you know how it is..." John shrugged sheepishly. "Mum's the word, and all."

"Mycroft brought us in to investigate a breach in security at MI5." Sherlock chimed in.

"Sherlock!" John reprimanded. "Mycroft said not to tell anybody!"

"Lestrade is a minor extention of Mycroft, he'd hear about it sometime even if it's not from us." Sherlock shrugged. "Might as well."

"Mycroft suspected malicious intent." John told Lestrade.

"Directly linked to Moriarty." Sherlock continued, ignoring John's exasperated look.

"Wait-... Moriarty?" Lestrade gasped.

"That's what I said." Sherlock rolled his eyes boredly.

"Whoever breached Mycroft's security knew things that only Moriarty would know. Details about Sherlock, about the bombings, about the pool, the Fall..." John shook his head with a shudder. "Nobody believed Moran when he said Moriarty was still alive, but now I'm not so sure."

"He lied." Sherlock stated. "To an extent."

"How so?" Lestrade asked him.

"Moriarty _is_ dead." Sherlock shrugged. "We have a body, we have witnessses... but we're still glancing over our shoulders looking for him. And, so long as we don't catch the man who broke through Mycroft's security, we always will."

"And, there's no telling if he had pre-planned crimes set up before his death. All it would take is a catalyst for something to happen... you're right. He's not dead. He's got a whole damn legacy." Lestrade growled. "He didn't seem the kind of man who would let even death get in his way."

"Well, whoever's moving on his behalf is quite interested in us." John sighed. "Mycroft's files on Sherlock, me, you... himself, too. Somebody knows... everything... families, friends..."

"Mycroft was worried that something like this would happen." Lestrade said grimly. "Where is Mycroft now?"

"Right here, Gregory." Mycroft said wearily as he walked through the door.

Lestrade walked over. "Hey, how are you doing?"

"I've been better." Mycroft shook his head. "Early yesterday morning, someone infiltrated the MI5 and hacked into their security database. Classified operations, witness protection program profiles, information on terrorist cells, everything they had was rifled through, and believe me whoever did this knew what they were doing... and what they were looking for."

Lestrade raised his eyebrow. "What was being looked for?"

The silence stretched on for a moment or two. "I was put under investigation around the time of Sherlock's Fall." Mycroft sighed. "I was a prominent asset to the British Government and the MI5 had to make sure my loyalties were secure..."

"And whatever they found out about you and everybody you were involved with is now in the hands of someone with ties to Moriarty." Lestrade finished.

"Exactly." Mycroft nodded grimly. "I am sorry, Gregory. I did try to distance myself to keep you and John clear of it, but the MI5 are not fools, they are far from it. But know that, I am already doing what I can to prevent anybody close to you from coming to harm."

"I don't doubt it, Mycroft." Lestrade smiled weakly, taking a brief moment to worry about his family in Dorset, especially Darren who was still only four years old.

Just then, there was a knock on the front door, jarring Lestrade out of his thoughts.

His head jumped up. "Speaking of which, I needed you to meet somebody." he said to Sherlock.

He left the flat and waited at the top of the staircase just in time to see Raffles charming Mrs. Hudson with a flattering compliment.

"Oi, you! Get up here!" Lestrade called out, nodding his head in the direction of Sherlock and John's flat.

"But I was enjoying myself so much with Mrs. Hudson!" Raffles called back in a playfully complaining tone. Then he smiled at Mrs. Hudson. "I'd better go see what he needs."

Mrs. Hudson giggled and smiled back. Raffles squeezed her hand warmly and trotted leisurely up the stairs to meet Lestrade.

"You're quite the charmer." Lestrade drawled sarcasitcally, eyebrow raised.

"Why thank you for noticing, Inspector." Raffles simpered, batting his eyelashes. "Maybe my charm will work better on you now that you've faced the facts."

Lestrade rolled his eyes and led him into Sherlock and John's flat. "Raffles - or whatever your real name is - meet Sherlock, John, and-..."

"_Mycroft...!_" Raffles gasped, eyes flickering a little wider in surprise. It wasn't such a blatant change of expression but Lestrade knew the look of terror on a brave man when he saw one. And that was it.

"You know him?" Lestrade asked quickly, turning to Mycroft.

When he saw Mycroft, he stopped short, wondering if he had done something catastrophically wrong in introducing them.

Mycroft stood ramrod straight, lips pressed hard together in an unforgiving frown, eyes flashing both scalding hate and ice cold, face a concerning shade of grey. "_Get out._" He glowered, sounding stiffer and colder than Lestrade had ever heard him speak. His voice felt like sharp knives on the eardrums.

Going from the way that Sherlock instinctively flinched away from his brother, it was the same for him. John froze, mouth clamped shut. Survival instincts overriding his shock and curiosity.

Mycroft stepped between Sherlock and Raffles with one long stride, shielding him away from the thief. The quiet, constantly amused smile melded back to Raffles's face like a mask to hide emotion and Lestrade had to shudder at the way it mirrored Mycroft's carefully expressionless face.

"Get out, Sherrinford." Mycroft thundered. "You're not welcome here."

"Mycroft." Raffles murmured reprimandingly to Mycroft as if he was a child, one side of his mouth curling upward with a slight smile that was so fake it was painful. "Is that any way to greet your older brother?"

Lestrade looked from Raffles - _Sherrinford_ - to Mycroft. Sherlock and John looked equally stunned.

_"What?"_

And all Hell broke loose.


	83. Hiding

Hiding

Seeing as Mycroft was too busy glaring holes through Sherrinford, Lestrade turned to Sherlock. "You didn't tell me you had _two_ brothers, Sherlock! What, did you think it was irrelevant?" he asked, slightly hurt.

Sherlock opened his mouth soundlessly and closed it, then he looked at Mycroft. "You didn't tell me I had _two_ brothers, Mycroft! What, did you think it was _irrelevant_?" he shouted accusingly, repeating Lestrade's question nearly word for word for the lack of a better way to put it.

John's eyebrows jumped into his hairline. "You didn't _know_?"

"I think I'd _remember_ if I did!" Sherlock spat back, now glaring at Mycroft.

"You didn't tell him about me?" Sherrinford exclaimed incredulously.

"You didn't exactly care to come back and introduce yourself either, now did you?" Mycroft hissed through his teeth.

"Alright!" Sherrinford raised his hands defensively. "Alright, guilty."

"So..." Lestrade decided to say, against his sanity's reason. "...There's three of you."

Silence.

Then, Sherrinford's eyes lit up with understanding. "Oh! That's what you meant when you said 'you're one of_ those_'."

"In my defense, I didn't actually mean that literally." Lestrade retorted stiffly.

"A _brother_, Mycroft!" Sherlock bellowed. "How could you hide this from me!"

"You have to admit, that _is_ a little cold." John squeaked under Mycroft's glare.

"Nobody expected him to return." Mycroft sighed.

"Hold on!" Lestrade piped in. "I researched you Holmeses! There was no mention of a Sherrinford!"

"If there was, Sherlock would know about him." Mycroft replied simply. "Sherrinford Holmes no longer exists."

"Holy crap!" Sherrinford chuckled humourlessly, looking slightly intimidated. "You 'disappeared' me!"

"A wonderful success, considering you wern't dead." Mycroft drawled.

"So I-..." Sherrinford trailed off, seemingly just coming down from his adrenaline high. "...I really don't exist anymore?"

"Not legally."

"Not even in the Holmes family records?"

"Gone."

For the first time, Sherrinford looked upset and tried to hide it. It made everybody in the room, sans Mycroft, pity him a little. "Really? You're certain?"

"What else did you expect?" Mycroft asked, exasperated.

"No - before you answer that - what did you do to expect something like that?" Lestrade butted in, ignoring Mycroft's glare.

Sherrinford pressed his thin lips together. "I, um..." He cleared his throat nervously and glanced at Mycroft who refused to meet his gaze. Then, he looked at Sherlock and John, staring at him eagerly, unblinking as if they expected him to just poof and disappear.

"Let's put it this way." Mycroft spoke up finally. "He was rude, troublesome, irresponsible, humiliating, caused a rift between the Holmes family's longest standing friends, got himself purposefully expelled from Eton, spit on the Holmes family legacy, devastated Mummy, and ran away from home never to be heard of again." The middle child rattled off scathingly.

The silence was so thick it would absorb the sound of a needle dropping.

"Um... I'm sensing some bad blood here." John whispered, grimacing at his usual habit of stating the obvious.

The three Holmeses regarded the ex-military doctor with such distainful looks that Lestrade blushed from second hand embarrassment.

"It happened a long time ago." Sherrinford said.

"All the longer for my resentment toward you to fester." Mycroft retorted.

"Ah, brotherly love." Sherrinford sighed forlornly. "I've missed it."

Lestrade and John took a second to compare the Mycroft-Sherlock sibling bond, to the Sherrinford-Mycroft relationship. Seeing the way Sherlock shuddered and resisted the urge to throw up, he was seeing it too.

_"Oh. My. God."_ John and Lestrade said in unison.

"No, just genetics." Sherrinford waved them off breezily. "And, speaking of genetics..." He bounded around Mycroft before the man could stop him and stopped in front of Sherlock. "Oh, look at you! You're _gorgeous!_" He exclaimed excitedly in a very Doctor Who tension level. "Oh, those eyes and the hair, it's all Mummy! And you've inherited the cheekbones, same as me! That's from Dad. And the intellect - _oh_ - you're a Holmes through and through, Sherlock! Perfect specimen!"

"Holmes family member, not specimen." Mycroft reminded with a sigh, hooking Sherrinford by the back of his collar with his umbrella handle and pulling him out of Sherlock's personal space.

"But- but, look at him! He's all sharp planes, ice cold, and that _height!_" Sherrinford clapped his hands like a child, pivoting in a tight half-circle, dislodging Mycroft's offending umbrella handle from his collar. "A little taller than me, no? You're built like a bloody _giraffe!_ How do you do, by the way, I'm Sherrinford Holmes." He trailed off, losing a bit of his excitement and smile in the process. "Well, ... I _was_."

Sherlock was studying this stranger that barged in and claimed to be his older brother. His eyes raked over Sherrinford from head to toe, gleaning facts by the second, lingering on his hands for a long moment.

Sherrinford's eyes softened and a nostalgic look overcame his face. "Oh, Mycroft's taught you well." he said suddenly. Sherlock looked up sharply at that, but Sherrinford was already back in his cheerful mood. "Well? Should I turn around? Strike a pose?"

"You're a thief." Sherlock stated.

"Correct." Sherrinford grinned.

"He was a murder suspect." Lestrade chimed in.

"My name was cleared!" Sherrinford protested whiningly.

"You were impersonating a police officer!" Lestrade shot back.

Sherlock's eyes lit up. "Tell me about it."

"Some other time, little brother."

"Of course you'd trail around Lestrade like a lost puppy." John rolled his eyes.

"It seems to be a Holmes trait." Sherrinford shrugged unapologetically. "Granted, our first meeting wasn't exactly ideal."

"Also a prominent Holmes trait." Sherlock scoffed. "Lestrade arrested me, Mycroft got pickpocketed, so what happened to you?"

"He threw a ham sandwich at me and then tried to taser me!" The thief crowed with glee. "It was a once in a lifetime experience!"

"Will you _never_ let me live it down?" Lestrade sighed in despair, dropping his head in his hands.

John patted his shoulder. "Tough luck, mate. I don't envy you."

Lestrade lifted his head and looked at the room, full of three troublesome Holmes men in a room too little to contain them all. "No, I wouldn't either."

"Well!" Mycroft raised his voice above all the noise. "This has been a _wonderful_ family reunion, Sherrinford, but I really think you should leave now."

Sherrinford sighed at Mycroft. "Alright. Sorry, Myc, I didn't want to cause trouble." he said in a chastized tone. Everybody stiffened, eyes the size of dinner plates, and resisted the urge to burst out laughing at Mycroft being called 'Myc'.

"You never do." Mycroft retorted sarcastically.

Sherrinford winced. "Alright, I agree, I deserve that."

"Believe me, if you got everything that was coming to you, you'd be _long gone_." Mycroft hissed.

"Well, looks like that's my cue." Sherrinford gave a tentative little goodbye wave to the rest of the room. "It was great meeting you, Sherlock, John, and it was great meeting your friends, Inspector."

Then, he turned and walked out.

Mycroft turned to Sherlock. "Not a word of this to Mummy, is that understood, Sherlock?"

"You should know better than to hide anything from her." Sherlock replied simply.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock fairly pouted and nodded.

"Well then, good evening."

And Mycroft left also, slamming the door behind him.

The three Baker Street Boys flinched and waited for the dishes in the kitchen to stop shivering in their cupboards.

Lestrade grimaced. "I did a bad thing, didn't I?"

Yeah, understatement.


	84. Failing

Failing

Mycroft stormed out of 221b Baker Street with a curt 'goodbye' to Mrs. Hudson and walked down the street without even bothering to summon Jason to bring his car around.

Not yet.

Clouds were beginning to loom over the city and a few tiny droplets splashed down onto Mycroft before a funeral-black umbrella covered him.

He walked to Hyde Park when he felt a presence at his elbow and turned.

Sherrinford walked by his side leisurely, a dark navy umbrella covering him from the rain to match Mycroft's. His face was deceptively relaxed and his blue-grey eyes half-lidded. Then, he raised his gaze and glanced around, taking in the people nearby and every possible escape route.

Mycroft remained quiet as he waited for Sherrinford to complete his scan of their surroundings.

There was a soft sigh from Sherrinford as the man relaxed a little more naturally now. "I really messed up, didn't I, Myc?" he said self-depricatingly.

"Yes. You did." Mycroft replied bluntly. "And, it's Mycroft, to you."

"Mycroft." Sherrinford amended. "I'm sorry."

"Well, sorry doesn't fix it." Mycroft retorted scathingly. "And neither does it change the last thirty-some years of our lives. I don't need your apologies, I have no use for them, and I don't want to hear them."

"But I'm going to go ahead and apologize anyway." Sherrinford shrugged.

They continued walking at a leisurely pace as the park grew more and more deserted and people began running for shelter from the rain.

"Taking a wild guess, did you have anything to do with the security breach in MI5?" Mycroft asked.

"Mhm," Sherrinford grunted the affirmative, "hope you don't mind, I was kind of curious as to where you and Sherlock were these days."

"And your involvement with Moriarty?" Mycroft questioned.

"Moriarty-...?" Sherrinford frowned a little as he thought about it. "Oh, you must mean Jim! Yeah, he and I knew each other for a bit. As I've told the Inspector before, not much goes on in the criminal world without me knowing. But he left me alone and I left him alone. He took on a few favors for me, and I did the same for him."

"Such as subtly hinting toward his survival?" Mycroft asked.

"And sending a bit of delayed e-mails. I'm a glorified mailman for the dead, Mycroft." Sherrinford pouted. "But if I had known you were the recipient, I would've reconsidered."

"So that's that." Mycroft nodded to himself grimly and resisted the urge to let out a mighty sigh of relief.

"Jim's friend, Sebastian, was it?" Sherrinford hummed thoughtfully. "I liked him. He's probably beginning to get bored of jail. He'll break out, you know, someday. But don't worry, if you don't want him loitering, I can keep him busy. I'm good at that."

They continued walking for a long period of silence.

"So," Mycroft prompted at length, "where have you been all these years?"

Sherrinford coughed self-consciously. "Oh, here and there." he replied vaguely. "Actually, I was kind of surprised that you never tried to find out before."

"As I said," Mycroft sighed, "Sherrinford Holmes no longer existed, not to the government, not to the people who knew you, and not to me."

"You were never tempted to find out?" Sherrinford asked curiously.

"Perhaps I never wanted to." Mycroft shook his head. "Besides, by the time I was promoted to a position in government to do so, I was already an older brother. Whatever discrepencies there were between us, it had nothing to do with Sherlock."

Sherrinford looked at him a little sadly. "Look at you, Mycroft, you're all grown up."

"I was six years old the last time you saw me." Mycroft snapped. "Of course I grew up."

"So, you do work for the government?" Sherrinford hummed thoughtfully.

"A job that should've been yours, by birthright." Mycroft replied.

Sherrinford rolled his eyes exaggeratedly. "Oh no, Mycroft, not this _again!_"

"Sherrinford, Holmeses have always been prominent shadow members of the government, and always will be! This legacy has been passed down for generations, it's practically tradition!" Mycroft groaned.

"Can you imagine _me_ working for the government?" Sherrinford scoffed. "_Me!_"

"No, I can't!" Mycroft spat back, whirling to face him. "Because you're a selfish, irresponsible, unreliable man, and a coward to trump it!"

Sherrinford reared up like he was about to shout back at his younger brother, but thought better of it. His shoulders sagged. "I know." he said quietly. "I _know that_, alright, Mycroft? Yes, I hated the thought of doing what you do now, I hated all those expectations, restrictions, and responsibilities, all those studies and lessons in perfection, I _hated_ it. I hated the person everybody wanted me to become because of some _goddamned_ tradition, so I left! And I'm not sorry for what I did, Mycroft, I'm _not_ sorry that I lived my life in the way that I wanted to. But I _am_ sorry that I had to leave you and Mummy to be able to do so, and I'm sorry that my decisions affected you." Sherrinford raised his hands, palms directed upward in a gesture of surrender. "I'm _sorry_, Mycroft."

"You just _ran_ from your responsibilities, Sherrinford, and I can't forgive that!" Mycroft growled. "You just left me to pick up where you left off, all those restrictions, rules, the Holmes image, I didn't like it either!"

"So why didn't you run away like I did?" Sherrinford asked, confused.

"Because you _leaving_ devastated Mummy enough!" Mycroft scowled. "And because Sherlock was so troublesome, so rebellious, so much like _you_." Sherrinford blinked. "I just couldn't leave him the way you did."

Sherrinford looked away and ran a hand through his hair and they continued walking. "How is Mummy?"

Mycroft glared at him, but replied. "She is well. She wasn't when you left, but she is now." He shook his head with a haunted look. "You should've seen her after it had sunk in that you that gone and wouldn't be coming back. She was in shock for the longest time, depressed, like the will to live had just gone suddenly out of her." Mycroft sucked in a breath. "And then she wasn't. One day, she just got up, and it was like you had never left. She took me into Father's study and let me watch her rip up every shred of evidence of your existance. Then she told me that 'there are two Holmes children' and that I'd soon have a younger brother."

"Just like that?" Sherrinford murmured.

"Just like that. Hell hath no fury, and all." Mycroft huffed back. "She told me that I was the firstborn Holmes and that I'd succeed Father in his work in your stead. At first I didn't understand what she was talking about because I was still just a child. And then Sherlock was born. He was an obnoxiously loud child, he had your's and Mummy's eyes and the bloody cheekbones and the razor-sharp intellect. It was like having you around all over again. I could see it, Mummy could see it too. And _God_, she loved him but she couldn't look at him for too long without thinking of you, so she didn't." Mycroft trailed off as he reminisced.

"I practically raised Sherlock." he continued at length. "But I was just so scared that he would get into all sorts of trouble like you that I tried to keep in check as much as I could."

"I can't imagine Sherlock appreciated that." Sherrinford said.

"No, in time he grew to rather hate me for it." Mycroft shrugged. "He rebelled, dropped out of Uni, like you, left home early, disappeared in London... well, he tried, anyway." Mycroft shook his head with a slight chuckle. "I remember tearing up the city looking for him, he was in a bad way, got involved with the bad sort, hooked himself on drugs. He refused to come home, so I dragged him back. And then he'd go missing again and the cycle continued."

"But, he's living on his own, now?" Sherrinford asked, eyebrows furrowed. "What made you change your mind about letting him?"

Mycroft's eyes softened a little. "He was arrested."

Sherrinford's eyebrows now flew upward. "I read about his extensive criminal record and found he had been arrested _several_ times."

Mycroft nodded. "But this time was different."

"How so?"

"He was arrested for tampering with evidence of a murder and for illegal possession of narcotics." Mycroft told him. "Inspector Lestrade was the one who made the arrest."

Sherrinford looked surprised. "The Inspector?"

"He was still a Sergeant back then." Mycroft snorted. "He did Sherlock good. He cleaned him up, got him off drugs, set him up in a decent flat, and agreed to take him on as a consultant."

"So, he's practically family, yeah?" Sherrinford asked.

Mycroft smiled fondly. "I used to hate him because of it." Sherrinford raised an eyebrow and let him continue. "Because Sherlock genuinely liked him and because he tolerated us Holmeses. He saved Sherlock's life more times than I care to count. He looked after him, personally oversaw his rehabilitation period at home, offered his guest bedroom whenever Sherlock got kicked out his flat. He was a better guardian and brother to Sherlock in ways that I've always failed him as. And I resented Gregory a little because of that."

"Gregory?" Sherrinford questioned, suddenly a little more interested.

"Gregory Lestrade." Mycroft shrugged. "That's his name."

"But you call him Gregory?" Sherrinford pried.

"We hated each other, then we tolerated each other when Sherlock got into trouble and we had to work together to find him. And then we grew to respect each other, we became... friends." Mycroft looked his brother straight in the eye. "And as of New Years, we have entered a relationship."

Sherrinford looked stunned, then he grinned. "Oh my God! Really?"

"Yes." Mycroft replied stiffly.

"Well, he did tell me he had a boyfriend, I had no idea it would be _you_!" Sherrinford crowed. "Small world!"

Mycroft narrowed his eyes dangerously at his older brother. "And might I ask _what_ you did that made Gregory tell you he was spoken for?"

Sherrinford smiled cattily and placed the tip of his finger on his slightly parted lips. "I stole a kiss."

Silence. To Mycroft's credit, he did not attack Sherrinford and attempt to gouge his eyes out, he just blinked. Once. "I will make you _suffer_."

"_Nooo!_" Sherrinford moaned in exaggerated agony, clutching at his chest with his free hand. "Mycroft, why don't you love meee!"

Mycroft looked at him, exasperated. "After _that_ performance, you need _me_ to tell you a reason?"

"You're mean."

"You're an insufferable fool."

"But I love you."

"It's a curse."

Sherrinford chuckled, then he grew serious again. "It really was good to see you again, though, ... and to meet Sherlock finally."

"Why didn't you come earlier?" Mycroft asked, feigning nonchalance.

"Because I'm a coward and always have been." Sherrinford replied frankly. "I didn't know what would happen if I came back... And I was too scared to find out. I'm sorry."

"You could've picked up a phone." Mycroft said, then sighed and shrugged. "But... rebuilding bridges works both ways, I guess."

Sherrinford turned his head to look at him sharply, expression unreadable.

"Like I said earlier, Sherrinford, I can't forgive what you did. And I probably never will. But, no matter what the records say, you are still my horrendously annoying older brother. And now that Sherlock knows, I think it would take a miracle to get him to stop prying at it." Mycroft explained. "I'm not asking you to come back... I'm just asking you to show up every once in a while to let us know you're still alive." Mycroft shrugged in an attempt to look casual about his deep concern. "We didn't know, ...before. Even I didn't know until you walked into Baker Street."

Sherrinford thought about it for a moment. "I'd like to meet Sherlock again sometime." he said.

"I think he'd like it, too." Mycroft sighed. "It's one of my main worries." Sherrinford raised an eyebrow. "Not that you two wouldn't get along... but that you _would_."

Sherrinford let out a laugh. "Well, see you again sometime, then."

Mycroft nodded. "You too, Sherrinford."

* * *

That night, in a large estate manor in the countryside, a woman sat by the fire in the sittingroom when she felt a presence. She looked up from her book with a guarded look, carefully hiding all traces of surprise.

"Who is there?" She put her book aside and pushed herself out of her seat.

She was a beautiful woman with silky waves of black hair streaked with silver. She was a tall woman, thin, but elegant and sharp-eyed. She spoke without a waver of fear in her voice. "I know you're there, come out and speak, don't loiter in the shade." She was a head-strong, brave woman.

A figure stepped out of the shadow next to one of the large windows. He had a few physical traits that mirrored hers, he was just a little taller, a little wider around the shoulders, but still thin and sinewy.

He had her eyes.

There was a quiet, but sharp inhale. It was difficult to say from whom it was. The woman's hands raised slowly to her mouth and she began trembling.

"Is that... Sherrinford?" she asked in a near whisper, disbelieving.

Sherrinford moved into the light of the fire. "Hello, Mother."

Mummy Holmes took three small steps to her son and brushed her fingers gently over his cheekbone. "You've grown mighty handsome." She smiled sadly. Sherrinford remained quiet. "Would it be meaningless to apologize?" she asked him after a prolonged silence.

"If it would take a burden off you, no." he replied simply.

A muscle jumped in her jaw. "Oh, Sherrinford, I'm sorry." she said. "I'm sorry that I made running away seem like a better option than staying here with your family. I'm sorry that I pushed you too hard, and restricted you in ways no child should have to be tied down. And I'm sorry that I was more of an enemy than an ally for you and I realize that I've failed you as a mother. I was young and blinded by so many expectations and I know that is no excuse for my non-existant parenting skills, but that is all I have. I'm an old woman now, and wiser for it. Would it be fruitless to beg your forgiveness?"

Sherrinford let her words sink in before replying hoarsely. "_No._ No, mother. _Never._"

The stone mask of indifference that every Holmes child had once gazed at and inherited, cracked briefly, giving way to a few silent tears as Mummy Holmes let out a sigh of relief. "Thank you."

She wiped her eyes and looked up.

But she was alone.

* * *

A/N: Hurrah for some backstory!


	85. Resentful

Resentful

It had been two days since Sherlock and Sherrinford Holmes met. It had also been two days since it came to light that Mycroft and Mummy Holmes had been lying to Sherlock for his entire life.

Sum it to say that Mycroft was _not_ Sherlock's favorite person in the world right now.

And that John was wondering if there were any other very important things that Mycroft was neglecting to tell them.

And that Lestrade was in a very, very tight spot at the moment.

"I- um," Lestrade grimaced into his phone when he finally scraped together enough courage to actually make the call, "I'm sorry, Mycroft."

_"There's no need for you to apologize."_ Mycroft replied swiftly.

"I really didn't know."

_"I know you didn't."_ Mycroft tried to reassure the copper.

"I wouldn't have tried to introduce Sherrinford to you or Sherlock if I did." Lestrade continued rambling. "I would understand if you hate me for that."

Mycroft huffed. _"Gregory, I - um - actually, I wanted to thank you."_

Lestrade blinked. "You what?" he asked dumbly.

Mycroft chuckled. _"Well, it had to happen sometime."_

"...What did?" Lestrade asked weakly.

_"Sherrinford."_ Mycroft waited a moment to let Lestrade collect his wits. _"Sherlock would've found out about him someday, and Mummy would've tried to find Sherrinford. As much as a prodigal son as he is, Sherrinford** is **her son. It would have come to light anyway and I'm secretly glad that it was you who made it. Sherlock would hate me forever if he had realized that we had no intention of ever telling him about Sherrinford, or if Mummy regressed into depression because of it."_

Lestrade blew out a breath he didn't know he was holding. "So... we're good?"

Another huffy laugh. _"We're good."_

"Oh, thank God." Lestrade sighed in relief.

_"Sherrinford agreed to stop by sometimes to get to know Sherlock and to get used to the fact that we don't actually hate him."_ Mycroft told him.

Lestrade raised his eyebrow dubiously.

_"Alright, maybe I do resent him... just a little."_ Mycroft conceeded. Although, how he saw Lestrade's raised eyebrow through the phoneline, Lestrade could not fathom.

"Well that's... good then?"

_"Yes, Gregory, it is good. Unless Sherlock and Sherrinford decide to merge forces against me then I cannot guarentee their safety."_ Mycroft deadpanned.

Lestrade laughed. "So, um... you okay?"

_"Of course, Gregory."_ Mycroft said breezily.

"Should I chalk it up to you being a Holmes, or you lying? Because this is kind of a big deal, Mycroft." Lestrade said uneasily.

_"I'll be alright, Gregory."_ Mycroft assured him. _"There is no need for worry."_

Figures that, there was.

* * *

_Please restrain Sherlock. -A_

_Oh, no. What's he done? -Lestrade_

_He's been a nuisance in trying to figure out this new brother of his ever since Mummy Holmes told him Sherrinford visited their home. -A_

_I repeat; what's he done? -Lestrade_

_The better question is; what hasn't he? -A_

_Oh. -Lestrade_

_He's making life Hell for my Boss. ...And me. -A_

_I mean, he had it coming, but still. -A_

_Alright. I'll see what I can do. -Lestrade_

_Do. -A_

* * *

_Sherlock? -Lestrade_

_What? -SH_

_Where are you? -Lestrade_

_Why? -SH_

_I'm at Baker Street and you're not here. -Lestrade_

_Obviously. I'm on a case. -SH_

_John's here too. -Lestrade_

_I'm busy. -SH_

_Too busy to take John with you? Really, Sherlock? -Lestrade_

_I told him I'd be out. -SH_

_You told him that **yesterday**. He was about to organize a search party for you when you didn't come back. -Lestrade_

_And now he's sulking because he knows you're on a case without him. -Lestrade_

_Oh, now he's frowning at me for tattling. -Lestrade_

_Seriously, where are you? -Lestrade_

_Home. -SH_

_? -Lestrade_

_Oh. **That** home. -Lestrade_

_Well, stop being a nuisance. And don't bother your mum. Anthea's complaining. -Lestrade_

_Oh, now my brother's making his PA complain on his behalf? Pathetic. -SH_

_I get that you're upset, Sherlock. But would it kill you not to make it hard on everybody else? -Lestrade_

_A** brother**, Lestrade! I had a family member that I didn't even know about. -SH_

_And Mycroft had more than thirty years to tell me about him. -SH_

_But he didn't. -SH_

_Typical. -SH_

* * *

"Hey." Lestrade greeted John when he found the man in their usual booth at the pub. "How are you holding up?"

John had already begun drinking without him and was well into his second pint. "Don't ask." he groaned.

"Sherlock still mad?" Lestrade asked.

"Well, he's been playing that violin of his for three days straight. He won't talk, won't eat, won't sleep, and slips out of the flat at ridiculous times when he knows I won't catch him." John fairly exploded. "Yes. He's still mad."

Lestrade looked sympathetic. "If it'll make him feel any better, tell him that Sherrinford is coming to visit next week."

"Would it be unfair of me to ask him to talk some sense into Sherlock?" John grumbled.

"I don't know." Lestrade shrugged. "I think they all need a little talking to, those Holmeses."

John let out a slightly hysterical giggle. "Understatement, Greg."

They continued drinking in silence and watched the telly as if it was the most interesting thing in the world.

"I don't think anyone's asked, but how are you?" John asked, breaking the silence.

Lestrade glanced at him over the rim of his glass. "I'm depressed." he declared. "Seriously depressed. Mycroft says that everything will be fine, Anthea's complaining that Sherlock's making her a personal Hell on Earth, and Sherlock's still obviously mad at Mycroft. The only people I'm not hearing from is Sherrinford and Mummy Holmes... then I'd have a whole set of-..." He threw his free hand up in surrender. "You know what? I give up. This has got to stop."

John snorted into his pint. "I know. But what can you do?"

Lestrade slouched back in his seat.

Yeah. What can he do?

* * *

He drunk-phoned Mycroft that night after he wandered home. Mycroft picked up after the first ring.

_"You liar."_ Lestrade slurred in his ear.

"Gregory?"

_"Who else, dumbass?"_

Mycroft's eyebrows raised in slight surprise. "'Dumbass'?"

_"Uh-huh. Yup. That's what you are."_ Lestrade agreed.

Mycroft sighed. "Gregory, are you drunk?"

_"Sure am. So's John. We spent the whole night talking about Sh-..."_ Lestrade paused for a moment in drunken puzzlement. _"Sherl- no not that one, the older one - Sherrin... **Raffles**. Raffles - him. You know..."_

"Sherrinford?"

_"That one, yeah."_ Lestrade giggled. _"Sherrinford. Such a weird name. Must be a Holmes thing, the names."_

"Gregory-..."

_"Mycroft."_ Lestrade cut him off, swallowing thickly. _"Listen-... listen to me, 'cause I need to tell you somethin' important."_

"I'm listening." Mycroft told him patiently.

_"You said that everythin's gonna be okay. But it's not."_ Lestrade sniffed on the other end. _"I didn' want to tell you before, but things like that never are. Okay, I mean."_

Mycroft sighed. "Gregory, I know that."

_"Do you?"_ There was a muffled sound of something crashing and Lestrade cursed. _"Ow - I mean, I dunno."_

"What do you mean?" Mycroft asked. "Are you alright?"

_"'M fine. Kicked the coffeetable on accident."_ Lestrade snickered. _"Had it comin'. Anyway... what was I say'n?"_

"Do I know that things are going to be okay."

_"Oh- oh yeah."_ Lestrade hummed. _"Because, he's angry, Mycroft."_

"I know that too, Gregory." Mycroft rolled his eyes. "He'll get over it."

_"No he won't. And you're not gonna forgive Raffles either so you have no right to ask Sherlock to forgive you."_ Lestrade stated firmly.

"_Sherrinford_, Gregory, Sherrinford." Mycroft corrected softly.

_"An' you're so angry at Sherrinford like Sherlock's angry at you. You both did stuff that's pretty hard to forgive and forget, and it's okay too, in'nit? I mean, you're okay with Sherrinford even if you're still angry at him."_ Lestrade trailed off for a moment. _"But my point is that you can't expect Sherlock to be okay with what you and Mummy Holmes did. 'Cause it's not okay. It was a bit not good. And I think he's more upset that you didn't trust him to keep a secret than because he all of a sudden has another older brother."_

"As I've told you, Sherrinford's existance was a secret in itself, it was much less complicated if Sherlock simply did not know." Mycroft explained.

_"But it's okay now, isn't it?"_ Lestrade said.

"Yes, it is." Mycroft replied when he realized it wasn't a rhetorical question.

_"Then, why arn't you talking to Sherlock?"_

"Simply because _he_ doesn't want to talk to _me_." Mycroft sighed. "He's busy."

_"He's tryin', Mycroft."_ Lestrade groaned.

"Oh no, what is he trying to do?" Mycroft demanded, suddenly on the alert.

_"He wants to know who his brother is."_ Lestrade slurred. _"Why arn't you talkin' to him?"_

"Why do you think he'd want to talk to me?" Mycroft questioned.

_"Stupid, Mycroft."_ Lestrade huffed. _"You said all evi- evide-... **Known stuff** about Sherrinford was all gone."_

"Yes, and?"

_"Sherlock's not gonna be able to find out things about Sherrinford... but you'd know."_ Lestrade hummed under his breath. _"You'd remember. So why arn't you tellin' Sherlock embarrassin' stories about him already?"_

"Grego-..."

_"Oh God, I feel sick. Imma go puke now. G'night, Mycroft."_ And Lestrade cut the connection, leaving Mycroft slightly stunned at his drunken insight.

He put his phone down and raked his fingers through his hair, letting out a large sigh.

* * *

Sherlock was at Holmes Manor, this was the third time in the last week that he visited. He had tenaciously hunted down every possible avenue of investigation into the mysterious case of the non-existant Sherrinford Holmes and _still_ it had gotten him nowhere.

It was obvious that Mycroft had walked these steps before him years ago and brushed away every trace of footprints. Sherrinford Holmes simply did not exist. No record of birth, education, arrests, not even dental records. And every time he tried to talk to Mummy Holmes about him, she clammed up and hurried away with obvious signs of guilt.

He moved upstairs to what was previously his room when growing up. He removed the plastic covering from the bed and sat on it quietly.

He was only disturbed by a soft coughing from the doorway. He turned to see Mycroft standing awkwardly just in the hallway.

"What do you want?" the younger Holmes snapped irrately.

Mycroft simply blinked in way of response. "I thought you might like to see the room where Sherrinford grew up." he said slowly.

"I checked every room." Sherlock spat. "And every room was identical to the next. You did a good job of removing all evidence of our elder brother, congratulations." he said scathingly.

"Oh, don't be difficult, Sherlock." Mycroft rolled his eyes. "And there is alot about the Holmes family that you still do not know of."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Please tell me I haven't got another additional sibling."

Mycroft allowed a stiff chuckle. "Uh, no, not that kind of secret."

He turned and left, not waiting to see if Sherlock would follow. Sherlock frowned, contemplating letting him go alone, but was ultimately won over by his curiosity.

They walked into an empty bedroom. It looked exactly the same as every other empty bedroom in the house. If anybody but Mycroft Holmes had led him into that room, Sherlock would've been inclined to think it was random.

Mycroft motioned with his umbrella to the wall opposite the bed. "Mummy doesn't know about any of this, so you must not tell her. Understand?" Sherlock nodded soberly.

Mycroft moved aside a full body length mirror from its place and gently felt along the wall behind it. "Oh, there it is." he murmured softly to himself.

There was a slight creak and a hidden compartment opened up a hole in the wall. Sherlock's eyes widened.

Mycroft smiled reminiscently. "Sherrinford made it himself. It was a secret from Mummy. He showed it to me a few times." He reached his hand into the gaping hole and pulled out a small wooden box. He handed it to Sherlock. "Go on. It's the last shreds of evidence that Sherrinford Holmes actually existed. I didn't have the heart to let Mummy destroy it."

Sherlock sat on the bed - Sherrinford's bed - and opened the box.

The first thing he saw was a faded picture that showed a younger Sherrinford with an even younger Mycroft on his knee. Mycroft looked to be about three years old and had something dark smeared around his gaping mouth and on his hands.

Mycroft coughed self-consciously at Sherlock's stunned expression. "Yes, well, it wasn't my best moment."

Sherlock stared at the picture, took one look at Mycroft, and burst out laughing.

There was another picture under the first, and another after that. Mycroft was busy telling stories until the day was long gone.

* * *

_Hey. -Lestrade_

_Yes, Gregory? -MH_

_Did I drunk call you last night? I think I did, but I don't remember. -Lestrade_

_Don't worry about it. -MH_

_Oh, shit! I **did** call you! -Lestrade_

_Oh no, what did I say? **Holy shit!** I was on for ten minutes? How drunk was I? I don't remember **any** of it! -Lestrade_

_Don't worry. I do. -MH_

_And, thank you. -MH_

_... Erm, okay? You're welcome? -Lestrade_

_Apparently, you are my voice of reason even when drunk. -MH_

_Oh... did I give good advice? -Lestrade_

_Yes. Resentfully so. -MH_

_Um... okay. -Lestrade  
_

_Have a good day. I love you. -MH  
_

_... -Lestrade  
_

_Excuse me while I do a panicked little freak-out over here. -Lestrade  
_

_... Okay, I'm back. Fine now. -Lestrade  
_

_I'm very happy for you. -MH  
_

_Har, har. Love you, too. -Lestrade  
_

_And I'm texting Anthea about this. -Lestrade  
_

_Oh, horror of horrors. I think she just squealed. -MH  
_

_An honest-to-God **squeal**. Appalling. -MH  
_

_Very unprofessional. -Lestrade  
_

_Not a word, Sir. -A  
_

_Yes ma'am. -MH_

* * *

A/N: Funny thing happened the other day, I got attacked by a ninja fever! Seriously, it snuck up on me in the middle of the night, rose to almost 104 degrees, and just suddenly disappeared two days later! Weird... but okay. As long as it's gone. haha. Still need to take it easy and stay cooped up in the house, though.

Stay healthy, everyone! TT_TT_  
_


	86. Affable

Affable

"Bunny, Raffles. Raffles, bunny." Lestrade introduced the thief to the squirming bundle of white in his arms.

The three Holmeses, John, and Lestrade were all gathered at Baker Street to welcome Sherrinford.

"Seriously?" Sherrinford asked without inflection.

"Thought he might make a good 'Welcome back to existance' gift." Lestrade shrugged.

"Seriously?" Sherrinford's right eyebrow twitched.

"He glows." Lestrade told him innocently.

_"Seriously?"_ Sherrinford's eyes widened but he made no move to touch the rodent.

"Uh huh, Dr. Stapleton introduced me to the little guy." Lestrade grinned affectionately. He lifted the bunny and turned to the Baker Street Duo. "Say hi to Bluebell's boy!"

John looked up with a pleasant smile. "Oh, she gave birth? How lovely."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath about 'fairies'.

Mycroft just shook his head and sighed. "I didn't know you were in contact with Dr. Stapleton."

"Oh, I'm not really." Lestrade shrugged. "She was a real help for the police after the Baskerville Case. Kept my number in her extensive list of contacts. It was coincidence, really. Apparently, my name was in her list right next to a friend that she was hoping would take this little guy in and she accidentally called me. Anyway, we got talking and I remembered Anthea saying something about 'Raffles's needing Bunny's'. So, here he is!"

"Seriously?" Sherrinford blinked, near uncomprehending.

"Well, whims are whims, and they need to be indulged." Lestrade shrugged back.

"...Seriously?" Sherrinford groaned, reluctantly taking the white rabbit off of Lestrade's hands.

"Stop saying 'seriously'." Sherlock growled. "It makes you sound like it's the only word you know."

Sherrinford regarded Sherlock with a look. "...Seriously?" He looked at Mycroft and shook his head. "Let me guess, grammar Nazi?"

"For as long as I've known him." John sighed.

Sherrinford snorted and lifted the bunny to eye level, staring at its twitching nose. "In honour of Inspector Lestrade's odd sense of humor, I think I'll call you Manders."

Unfortunately, the name Bunny stuck, Manders did not.

"At least it's a rabbit, not a cat." Lestrade teased, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

"I would've been perfectly happy to get a fox." Sherrinford smiled slyly. "A silver one, to be more precise."

"Oh, you should be so lucky." Lestrade returned good-naturedly.

"Shut up, Lestrade." Sherrinford said affably. "You foxy thing, you." he added more to irk Mycroft than anything.

Mycroft cleared his throat loudly and Sherlock smirked.

"Don't get so hot-headed, Mycroft." The youngest Holmes brother said. "I thought you were supposed to be the Iceman."

Sherrinford froze mid-pet, causing Bunny to squirm indignantly under his motionless fingers. "'Iceman'?" His eyes were wide. "_You're_ the Iceman? But-... but that would make-..." He looked at Sherlock. "Oh- Oh, _no way in Hell_. You're the Virgin? Sherlock, you _can't_ be a virgin! I refuse to accept that, you're thirty for God's sakes! Ack! Killing brain cells now-..."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Not everybody is a sexual fiend as you are, Sherrinford." he sneered, it was all very mature.

"No. No Holmes boy is allowed to not have tasted of female flesh beyond eighteen years. Not on my watch!" Sherrinford seemed genuinely appalled... and a little in awe, he looked at Sherlock like he was secretly a unicorn.

"He's not a virgin!" John blurted instinctively and choked when he realized what he just said. "I mean-... not _anymore_." he trailed off lamely. Silence reigned supreme. "Um... hi, I'm Sherlock's boyfriend, John Watson."

Sherrinford stared at the ex-army doctor for a long moment. "Well - one - I suppose I should congratulate you both. Two - if you hurt him, I'll kill you, blah, blah, blah. Three - thank_ God_ for you, Doctor Watson! I don't think I could go through the ordeal of explaining about the 'birds and the bees' to another Holmes."

There was a collective inhale from the rest of the room.

"Sherlock, don't you dare." Mycroft snapped pre-emptively, levelling a sharp look at the younger Holmes.

John bit his teeth into his bottom lip so hard that he drew blood, but he was grinning helplessly.

_"Oh my God, Mycroft!"_ Lestrade wailed through uproarious laughter, completely disregarding every shred of common sense. "Sherrinford, where have you_ been_ all my life!"

"I'll bury you, Gregory." Mycroft seethed at his chortling boyfriend. "Bury. You. In paperwork. I'll do it. Don't tempt me."

"Christ." Lestrade wheezed. "This is gold. I gotta tell Anthea." And he whipped out his phone.

Mycroft sagged slightly and let out a groan.

Sherrinford's brow creased and he mouthed 'Anthea?' questioningly around Mycroft to Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded his head toward Mycroft and mouthed back 'PA'.

John joined in the silent conversation. 'BFFs' he added, gesturing toward Lestrade and Sherrinford grinned, nodding understandingly.

Mycroft wanted to throw his hands up, launching the whole insane situation into the Almighty's hands. He also wanted to cry. Just a little bit. He would've if he wasn't Mycroft Holmes.

He envied Lestrade who was freely shedding tears... of mirth.

Oh Lord, it was going to be one of those days...

* * *

"So." John prompted uneasily a few hours later while Sherlock and Mycroft were engaged in brotherly banter and Lestrade was downstairs talking with Mrs. Hudson about something or the other. "You're a thief."

Sherrinford glanced over at John, who was sitting in his usual armchair, fidgeting. The thief lounged, completely at ease, on Sherlock's couch, his boots elevated slightly, crossed at the ankles on the armrest. "Mhm, yeah. Does it bother you?" He shifted to slot the opposite armrest more comfortably on the curve of his neck and entwined his fingers on his stomache.

"Uh, no." John replied uneasily, thinking back on all the times he and Sherlock broke the law for a case. "I mean, that would be a little hypocritical, and all." he trailed off at Sherrinford's lazy, cat-like smile. "What?"

"You're adorable." Sherrinford grinned. "Like a constantly upset kitten, or a morose teddy bear. You look like you have very pinchable cheeks." He shook his head at John's baffled look. "I'm sorry, you were speaking, go on."

"It- um-..." John blinked confusedly and shook his head. "I don't-... sorry, I don't even remember what I was saying. Christ."

"Stealing. Hypocritical." Lestrade chimed in, having walked in on the last part of the conversation. "As a copper, I really don't want to know."

Sherrinford raised his eyebrows. "What? Are you playing favorites? Why does John get away with stealing, and not me?" Lestrade scowled. "And on that note, why does _Sherlock_ get away with impersonating a police officer and not me?"

Lestrade raised his gaze to the ceiling. One the one hand, it would be better to explain the unique situations of those offences... But on the other hand... "Yeah." he said flatly. "Yeah, I play favorites and you're not one of them."

Sherlock glanced over and chuckled, smirking, and Mycroft looked honest-to-God proud. Sherrinford let out an indignant sqwawk.

"But seriously," Lestrade continued, not seeing the other two Holmes's looks behind him. "what _did_ make you start stealing?"

Sherrinford shrugged. "I fell in love with a painted lady and so far, I've never failed to obtain anything I've ever wanted."

"Be it a portrait, gem, or a woman." Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"You say it like it's a bad thing." Sherrinford said with half a smile.

"Eton." Mycroft glared. "Don't think I've forgotton how you manipulated your way out of it."

"Again, not an entirely bad thing." Sherrinford chuckled proudly.

"You slept with your botany professor!" Mycroft groaned as Sherrinford's face broke out into a feral smirk. "_And_ her husband!"

"Best thing I've ever experienced in Uni." Sherrinford sighed with obvious satisfaction.

"I hate you. I loathed to show my face at Eton even before they knew a Mycroft Holmes existed and that he was going to attend." Mycroft scowled.

"I'm sure you handled it." Sherrinford waved him off breezily.

"They wouldn't even glance in my direction for the first week." Mycroft shook his head.

"Only the first week?" John asked.

"I _am_ Mycroft Holmes, after all." Mycroft said simply like that answered everything. And in a way, it did.

Bunny hopped out from under Sherrinford's couch and twitched his nose a few times. Then, he snorted softly in a ploy to gain pets and Sherrinford indulged him, grabbing him by the scruff of his neck and plopping him onto his stomache.

Bunny grunted once, twitched his ears, and hunkered down, back facing Mycroft.

"Sherrinford." Mycroft said, eyes on the insolent rodent. "I don't think your pet likes me."

Sherrinford just continued petting Bunny's fur. "Good boy." he cooed with a grin.

* * *

"So, you're Anthea." Sherrinford smiled charmingly at the lovely young lady who came to pick Mycroft up.

"So, you're Sherrinford." Anthea replied simply, in the exact same tone, not even sparing him a look.

"I've heard alot about you." Sherrinford said.

Anthea finally looked up from her Blackberry, eyebrows quirked a little in sympathetic amusement. "No you haven't."

"Being Mycroft's PA and Inspector Lestrade's confidant must be exhausting." Sherrinford continued in a friendly manner, not in the least deterred.

"They were insufferable before they got together." Anthea conceded. "And if you do anything to sabotage that, I'll rip out your intestines and strangle you with them." She said in a cordial tone that contrasted her words and smiled winningly. "Okay?" Then, she returned her gaze to her Blackberry.

Sherrinford looked at Lestrade and Mycroft with a mildly embarrassed expression. "I think I'm in love."

* * *

Interpol's International Art Theft Investigation Specialist, Agent Stephen Barnhart returned from work late that night and tossed his keys into a bowl on a counter in his meagre kitchen when he saw something out of place in his sitting room.

He blinked blankly, squashed the brewing feeling of trepidation with caution, and palmed a kitchen knife as he crept stealthily to his bedroom where he kept his gun as Interpol agents do not usually walk around armed like other police organizations.

When he was safe in his bedroom, he soundlessly lifted his gun out of his safe and flicked the safety off.

After he had secured the house and came up empty on suspects, he returned to his sitting room and flicked the lights on.

There was a long, cylinder tube standing, leaned on the back of his sofa. Agent Barnhart, ever careful for fingerprints, snapped on a pair of disposable gloves and carefully picked it up.

It was quite light, no signs of sabotage or foul play. There was a note stuck to it and Agent Barnhart peered at it curiously.

_With love, from the wrong side of the Law._ And a provocative red kiss mark.

The frantic hunt for the stolen painting subsided the next day.

* * *

A/N: Bunny and Raffles. It had to happen. For REASONS. Okay? And, to demonstrate my very long and complicated thought process, I will write it out for your viewing pleasure.

International career criminal/thief, at the time of creation, an unnamed charming middle-aged gentleman. - Charming gentleman thief, alias; Raffles, still not planned out to be Sherrinford Holmes. - Raffles = estranged Sherrinford Holmes? Instant headcannon! - Raffles needs a Bunny!sidekick. - Bunny = Bluebell? - Realization that Bluebell is BBC reference to 'Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle'. - In Hounds of Baskerville, accidental swapping a common rabbit for an identical, but much more valuable one, mirrors the accidental swapping of the two geese in the original story. - Bluebell = BLUE carBuncLE. - Blue Carbuncle = gem. - Gem = thief. - Thief = Raffles = Sherrinford. - Blue Carbuncle = Bluebell = Bunny.

IT. HAD. TO. HAPPEN.

Ahem, excuse the long rant. I had to get it out of my system.


	87. Mundane

Mundane

"You know what..." Mycroft said with a grimace when he, Lestrade, and Anthea arrived at Mycroft's safehouse. "I think it would be much less of a hassle if you just moved into this place."

Lestrade let his eyes roam over the familiar foundations of the safehouse Mycroft had situated him in when faced with the threat Maurice and York provided. It had not changed in the slightest in the years that he had been gone. Everything was the same right down to the thick ivy writhing up and down the red-bricked walls and around the steel window frames.

"You know, Mycroft." he responded slowly. "You just might be right." Then maybe he'd have the right to trim down the damn ivy.

He really had no idea how this whole situation came about, Mycroft was just overreacting.

After hearing, in passing, how Sherrinford had broken into his flat, Mycroft demanded that Lestrade temporarily move out while his men milled about in his flat like an army of ants to get every hint of 'criminal germs' out of it as well as upgrading his home security systems.

Mycroft had kindly offered his safehouse as a temporary living space while things settled and Lestrade was too tired, after a full day of three Holmeses, to argue and gratefully took him up on his offer.

* * *

The next morning, he met up with one of Mycroft's associates.

Lestrade thought there was something to be said about the fact that he knew Mycroft's head of security, Linus Grint, almost personally by now, having met the elderly man many times when he came over to oversee the upgrade of Lestrade's security.

It did not help to know that Linus was also one of the Diogenes Club's more prominent members and that he was more than likely the Head of Security for more than just household security systems.

Usually, Lestrade would avoid a close friendship with such a distinguished character if he could to avoid potential political webs, but Mycroft had programmed Linus' phone number permanently into Lestrade's speed dial after the third time Linus had to secure Lestrade's home from criminals.

And as far as Lestrade knew, Linus thought of him as a pet project. Nothing critical to National Security, but nevertheless, always a challenge. Lestrade was intimidated by the way Linus always looked at him like he wanted to put him inside a bubblewrap-laced box and burrow him away in the most secure vault he could procure.

Anthea always privately laughed at the way he squirmed.

Mycroft just smirked and said to Lestrade; "Unfortunately, I am on Linus's side in this instance."

Everybody who knew Lestrade, knew that the man had not even the tiniest scrap of good luck. He was Murphy's Law in motion, a trouble magnet. If there was something bad going on, he was more than likely to stumble in on it. Linus seemed to be the kind of man who would doggedly trace his footsteps just waiting for something to happen.

Lestrade was also Linus's muse. Every single time Lestrade called him, he could imagine Linus rubbing his hands together in anticipation as the older man asked him questions like; did they break the office window? Because I was thinking of making built-in lasers for the window frame if the steel mesh wire in the window panes that I had set last time wasn't enough to deter them. And maybe I should set live wires in the air vents just in case...

He was a sixty-two year old revolutionary like that and he knew that if there were any holes in his security, Lestrade's misfortunes would help him find them.

He was utterly mad and Lestrade both feared and admired him with his sunken, but sharp hawk-like blue eyes, paling now from cataracts, the looming eyebrows that seemed to have life of their own, the crooked nose, once broken in a pub brawl when the man was young, the sophisticatedly domed forehead with a strong, curving scalp, and the pure white tuft of hair like a whisp of cloud on the crown of his head.

The man looked ancient, thought like an eager, and sometimes mischevious young man, and spoke like a troublesome, but endearing boy.

He conversed with Mycroft as if he thought the man was a child, Anthea was not spoken to at all, having a ghost status of something not entirely real, the others at the Diogenes Club were harrassed by immature notes and scribbles of taunting authority, and Lestrade was spoken to - surprisingly - as an equal.

That is, until Linus told Lestrade he did not disrespect Mycroft, but simply did not like him because he didn't like beer, Anthea spooked him, and 'all the other tossers' - his words, not Lestrade's - were all posh pricks. They were all human beings but they didn't act like it. Linus always scoffed at them. He was very proud of his mundane characteristics.

Until Lestrade had to ruin it all by pointing out that he was probably the most eccentric man in the room.

"Eccentric?" he cried, looking astonished. "_Me?_"

Lestrade grimaced and wondered if anybody else had called him out on the fact of if they were all too much in awe of his cutting intelligence, or too intimidated by his aged wisdom to do so. "Uh, a bit unique, I'll say."

"Well, of course I am!" Linus exclaimed indignantly. "Did you think I was made by a cookie cutter like those other old drones in the Diogenes Club?"

"But you can't exactly be proud of your mundane characteristics if you're so unique." Lestrade told him seriously.

"Of course I can!" Linus grinned happily. "I'm a unique human and reserve the right to be proud of my mundane eccentricities!"

"Sorry, you're not making any sense." Lestrade furrowed his brow, trying to understand.

"Humans are unique." Linus explained with a patient smile. "And everybody in the world is equally unique that their uniqueness becomes steadily mundane. And because uniqueness becomes mundane, the old bastards at the Diogenes Club try to become less mundane, which turns them into arid caricatures of their former selves and I, who never strives to change myself, is seen as eccentric." He waved a finger aloft wildly. "Therefore, my only eccentricity is that I am mundane because of my uniqueness."

Lestrade rubbed his forehead wearily. It was like listening to one of those insane men in Catch-22 talk.

"Okay, so let me get this straight." he began. "You're saying you're eccentric because you're normal where nobody wants to be normal because everybody tries to be unique?"

"And the people who try so hard to be unique when they are not, simply grow boring." Linus nodded sagely.

"Because they were unique to begin with, and when they tried to change their unique selves into something they wern't, they became mundane." Lestrade continued. "In an attempt to become unique, because everybody's doing it."

"Doesn't it make you want to poke fun at those imposters too?" Linus grinned under his forboding eyebrows of doom.

Lestrade let out a little laugh. "Wow, I never thought about that before."

"I like you. You're interesting." Linus told him then. "I hear your house gets broken into semi-annually, I like that in a man."

"What? That I have crappy security?"

"No, that people consider you interesting or dangerous enough to see you as a threat." Linus smiled mysteriously. "A semi-annual break-in? Now that's what I would call 'unique'."

Talking to Linus always guaranteed a headache.

"I absolutely abhor those cookie-cut minions of Mycroft." Linus remarked thoughtfully. "I take great satisfaction in eating gingerbread men every day, even when it is not Christmas." he confessed.

Lestrade blinked because he wasn't quite sure gingerbread men had anything to do with their conversation. "That is-... positively cannibalistic." he deadpanned.

"I suppose." Linus shrugged.

"Are you going to stop doing it, then?" Lestrade asked him.

"Why would I do that?" Linus asked him confusedly. "I mean, what else are gingerbread men for?"

Linus was a very uniquely mundane man.

* * *

"How was your day?" Mycroft asked Lestrade when he escorted him home after Linus was done with it.

"It was..." Lestrade looked thoughtful. "Mundane."

"Just another day in the life of Gregory Lestrade." Mycroft rolled his eyes with a smile. "You've been talking to Linus."

"I swear, Mycroft. Only one man was injured in Linus' attempt to wire my air vents to electrocute intruders." Lestrade deadpanned.

"A mundane day, indeed." Mycroft shook his head back at him. "Did you meet up with the Spanish Inquisition as well?" he asked dryly,

"... _Blasphemy!_ Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!"

* * *

A/N: Today was very mundane...


	88. Dancing

Dancing

"Har, har - no way." Lestrade crossed his arms and scowled at Donovan.

"Why not, Sir?" Donovan sighed in exasperation. "None of the other blokes are quite as blessed with your looks."

"What does _looks_ have anything to do with it?" Lestrade asked desperately, voice raising an octave or so.

Dimmock walked in, having heard the commotion outside Lestrade's office. "What's going on here?"

Lestrade rounded his desk immediately and hid surreptitiously behind Dimmock. "She's being crazy, Dimmock, tell her she's gone mad!"

"You've gone mad." Dimmock drawled to Donovan without feeling, then turned back to Lestrade. "And what exactly has she gone mad about?"

"There's going to be a charity dinner in a few weeks and our Chief Superintendant can't go because he has an important hospital visit, so..." Donovan trailed off.

"So Lestrade's going?" Dimmock asked.

"I think he's our best option." Donovan shrugged. "He's got the highest solve rates, people will recognize him from his pictures on the front page, he's got a political superstar boyfriend, he's easy on the eyes-..." Here, Lestrade cut her off.

"And I hate those dinners, always so stuffy, I hate the suits, too uncomfortable, ...and I can't dance." he confessed.

"You can't?" Donovan raised both eyebrows.

"Nobody's perfect." Dimmock grimaced back.

"But, what did you do at your wedding reception?" Donovan asked him.

"Slow danced." Lestrade shrugged. "Just swayed back and forth to the music."

"He stepped on her foot at least three times. It was damn precious." Dimmock teased and Lestrade smacked him upside the head.

"We need to get you a dance instructor." Donovan decided.

"I'm not going to the charity dinner." Lestrade responded flatly.

"Whether you're going or not, you need to learn to dance sometime." Donovan told him.

Lestrade turned to Dimmock again. "Dimmock, tell her she's mad."

"You're mad, Donovan." Dimmock parrotted obediently.

* * *

"Oh God!" Lestrade stumbled. "Christ, sorry." When he stepped on his dance instructor's foot. "Fuck!" When he botched up the turn. "Bloody Hell!" When he somehow managed to trip his partner up. "Shiiiii-..." When his enraged and indignant dance instructor finally gave up and walked out on him in a fury.

He sighed to himself, alone in the dance studio, and pulled out his phone out of his sweat pants pocket. "Dimmock, tell Donovan she's mad."

_"He told me to tell you you're mad."_ Dimmock said aside to Donovan.

"I mean it." Lestrade groused.

_"He means it."_

"Mad." Lestrade groaned.

_"Mad, he says."_

* * *

"What's this I hear about you learning to dance?" Mycroft asked in the car on their way back from dinner.

"Don't even ask." Lestrade rolled his eyes. Then, he looked at Mycroft. "I'll bet you were taught how to dance at a very young age, you bloody aristocrat."

Mycroft chuckled a little at the pet name Lestrade seemed to have picked up for him. Every time Mycroft's upbringing would show a great deal of difference from Lestrade's, he'd call him a 'bloody aristocrat'. Mycroft wasn't sure when it had started, but he thought it must've been either when Lestrade learned that Mycroft took horse riding lessons as a boy, or when he found out that Mycroft had never taken part in a spitting contest in his life.

"I confess, dancing was an area of expertise that I have had a little experience in." he replied modestly.

"Ugh! I knew it!" Lestrade threw his hands up. "I can just imagine it!"

"And how are your steps coming along?" Mycroft asked conversationally.

"They really liked my dance instructor's feet, they kept gravitating toward them like homing beacons." Lestrade admitted. "She gave up on me about half an hour after we started. I guess her feet could only take so much abuse."

Mycroft chuckled a little. "I am sorry to hear that."

"Well, you know, if worse comes to worst, I could always grovel in front of Anthea for mercy lessons." Lestrade shrugged helplessly.

"I'm sure she will indulge you."

"Until I step on her feet."

"Then, I don't see the reason to grovel in the first place."

Lestrade snorted. "You're a bastard, Mycroft."

The car pulled up in front of Mycroft's large, empty house mentally dubbed as the 'Museum'. Lestrade had only been inside the foyer and had already seen enough to come to that conclusion.

"Jason will see you safely home." Mycroft told him. "Unless, perhaps, I could bribe you into a drink with me?" He nodded his head in the direction of his house.

Lestrade nodded. "Yeah, I don't see why not."

"Wonderful."

They trudged up the few front steps to Mycroft's front door and was greeted by a tall elderly man with salt-and-pepper hair and an immaculate suit.

"Welcome home, Master Holmes." he said in a soft, mild voice that Lestrade could strangely feel vibrate straight into his core. "And you, Master Lestrade. Welcome."

"Hello, Merrim." Mycroft nodded, shrugging out of his coat.

Merrim took it without being bidden and hung it up on a rack without a crease. He then turned to Lestrade expectantly with a patient ready-when-you-are look.

Lestrade fumbled quickly out of his coat and watched as it was whisked away and draped over Merrim's left arm.

"Tea is already served in the sitting room, Master Holmes." Merrim informed with only the slightest hint of a smile.

"Thank you, Merrim." Mycroft smiled back, only half a kilo-watt brighter than Merrim.

Merrim nodded to the Lord of the House and retreated as silent as a ghost with Lestrade's coat slung over one arm.

"He's probably taking it to be spot washed." Mycroft whispered aside to Lestrade as they watched the man disappear. "That coffee stain on your sleeve must be killing him." he chuckled. "If he had his way, that coat would burn."

Lestrade shook himself out of his stunned trance and looked at Mycroft. "You've got a Jeeves." he said flatly.

"No, his name is Merrim." Mycroft smirked back.

"You have a bloody live-in servant!" Lestrade exclaimed.

"Technically, he is a valet." Mycroft chipped in.

"You have Alfred Pennyworth working for you, Mycroft." Lestrade said. "I honestly wouldn't be surprised if you told me you were secretly Batman."

"Batman?" Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "Nonsense. If anybody, I'd be Ra's al Ghul."

"I knew it!" Lestrade exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air. "You _are_ immortal!"

"No protests against my international terrorist status?" Mycroft teased.

"Oh, I already knew that." Lestrade grinned back. "Bloody aristocrat."

* * *

"Seriously, you've never danced in your life?" Mycroft asked, almost sounding astounded.

"Not outside a club, no." Lestrade shook his head. "I always snuck out of those horrible folk dances that they always made us do in school." He shuddered.

"Many consider dancing to be a way to express oneself." Mycroft reminded him.

"Well, I can express myself without dancing just fine, thanks!" Lestrade scowled like an upset child.

Mycroft just chuckled. "Well, come here. It's not so difficult."

He made Lestrade stand up from his seat and hook his arm around his waist as he circled a hand around Lestrade's neck. Their free hands found each other in a slightly awakward clasp.

"Now, let's have none of that." Mycroft admonished when Lestrade rolled his eyes and tried to step away. "Just take a little step - a _little_ step, Gregory!"

They managed a meagre six steps before the inevitable happened and caused Mycroft to rub his foot ruefully. "Sorry." Lestrade winced.

"Alright, take off your shoes." Mycroft ordered as he toed off his own footwear.

They continued their dance lesson in their socks on the Turkmen rug in front of the fire and Lestrade had to hide a grimace at the cheesiness of it all. And seeing the look on Mycroft's face, he was also sporting such thoughts.

Their gaze met and they chuckled.

"Cliche." Mycroft grunted.

"Cheesy." Lestrade agreed.

In that one moment of distraction, Lestrade had managed to mess up his steps again and tripped up Mycroft, who went sprawling inelegantly onto the carpet, taking his dance partner with him.

They lay stunned for a moment, waves of heat from the fire washing over them, at least, Lestrade thought it must be. Mycroft was flat on his back, blinking in disorientation.

"You're right." Mycroft said after an awkward beat. "You_ are_ horrible at dancing the waltz, I was even trying to teach you the easy one."

Lestrade didn't move from from his position above Mycroft, supporting himself with both his arms, hands bracketing Mycroft's head. "I'm better at horizontal tango." he replied, expression stone-serious.

"Prove it." Mycroft shot back smoothly without missing a beat.

Lestrade blinked and looked to his boyfriend for confirmation. Mycroft nodded back at him with a sly smile.

And, on the sitting room carpeted floor in front of the fireplace. Lestrade did.

"Cliche." Mycroft murmured.

"Cheesy." Lestrade agreed full heartedly.

They exchanged looks and laughed.


	89. Happy

Happy

"Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod-..." John inhaled deeply. "Greg. No. We don't give in to terrorists." he said desperately.

"Not terrorists, John." Lestrade covered his mouth with his hand to hide his smile. "It's Sherlock."

"That's even worse." John whined.

"Just until he stops panicking?" Lestrade clapped his hands together in a pleading motion. "Please? Just keep him away from Mycroft, he might try to strangle him, or throw him off a cliff. Or something equally dangerous."

"Okay, first of all, since when could I handle Sherlock?" John asked. "Second, congratulations to you and Mycroft finally getting it on. Third, if Sherlock has a concussion, I'm not taking care of him."

The two non-Holmeses were down at Baker Street, Sherlock was currently resting in his room quietly... quite unconscious. He had had a trying day.

... That is to say. He showed up at a crime scene for a case with Lestrade, took one look at the copper, and made an intelligible noise sounding startlingly like his brain short-circuiting, and passed out.

At the crime scene.

It took hours to move his dead weight to Baker Street and nobody had any plans of letting him live it down anytime soon.

"Okay, okay." Lestrade sighed. "Just keep the two Holmeses away from each other until Sherlock stops trying to literally bleach his brain, okay?"

"Okay," John nodded soberly. "But what do we do about the other Holmes?"

Lestrade shook his head. "Don't worry about it. Sherrinford's in Russia tracking down a man with a lovely jeweled egg that he wants to see."

"Meaning..." John said pointedly.

"He's doing recon on a collector's private exhibition of Faberge Eggs." Lestrade deadpanned. "Mycroft convinced him to stop his criminal endeavors in the UK, unfortunately, the same can't be said about the rest of the world."

"He's crazy." John nodded decisively.

"But he's a crazy who doesn't really care about my love life unless he's involved, which isn't going to happen." Lestrade shrugged. "He sent me a text asking me if I finally got that stick out of Mycroft's arse, so I guess that counts for something."

"He's just mad because Mycroft made him give back the painting he stole." John chuckled. "Children."

"Really." Lestrade agreed full-heartedly.

"But isn't it a bit weird?" John asked him. "I mean, of course it's weird, it's Mycroft. But, I would've thought he'd be a bit more of a prude about the whole 'sex' thing."

Lestrade shrugged. "Me too. But Mycroft told me that he was a more 'sex first, small gestures of sentiment later' than the 'building up to it' type."

"Well, Mycroft's allergic to sentiment, so I could see that happening." John chuckled uneasily.

"Thanks, John." Lestrade grinned. "For letting me talk about this without freaking out."

John blinked back. "Hm?"

"And I'm sorry." Lestrade continued with a growing smirk. "For what I'm about to say, but I can't help myself anymore."

"What's that, then?" Famous last words.

"You _do_ realize it's _Mycroft Holmes's_ sex life we're talking about."

John paled, let out a choke/cough/whimper, and made a hasty tactical retreat to preserve his sanity.

Lestrade just watched and laughed.

* * *

"Really now, Mycroft!" The Royal Equerry greeted warmly. "One could almost assume you were avoiding Buckingham Palace! We never see you enough these days!"

"Harry." Mycroft smiled back cordially. "You must understand how it is to have a brother with a nose for trouble." He did not say which brother.

"Ah yes, how is Holmes the younger?" Harry continued. "I cannot thank him enough for his involvement in apprehending Ms. Adler."

"As well as he can be while still upholding the law." Mycroft smiled thinly.

Harry just laughed at Mycroft's troubles. "Well, hang in there, old friend. And congratulations!"

Mycroft blinked but didn't betray his surprise. "Really Harry, must you...?"

"Word gets around quickly without you around to intimidate loose lips into silence." Harry told him apologetically. "Nobody can do it quite like you can."

"And I intend to get down to business at once." Mycroft sighed. "It seems I have been remiss in my duties."

Harry just shrugged. "And bring that gentleman of yours around sometime, I've been all too curious about what sort of man he is."

And with a wink, the Royal Equerry excused himself to do his duties.

Mycroft's brain finally caught up to what Harry said and the British Government scowled after the Royal Equerry. "I won't!" he called after his friend.

Harry just let out a ringing laugh and waved over his shoulder.

* * *

"Sir-..." Donovan said, walking into Lestrade's office with a hurried knock.

"No." Lestrade cut her off sharply.

"You didn't even hear what I was about to say." Donovan complained.

"I don't want to know." Lestrade stated flatly.

Donovan raised her eyebrows.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Oh, for God's sakes! What harm can it do?" he asked himself. "What?"

Donovan grinned impishly. "Congratulations on fucking him, Sir. I hope you'll be in better spirits now."

"Get out!"

Lestrade could hear Donovan giggling and cackling all the way down the hall as she left.

He shook his head with a wry smile. He had a good sergeant.

Dimmock poked his head in. "Um-..."

_"Get out!"_

Dimmock squeaked and ran before the thrown paper weight hit the door.

* * *

Visiting the morgue had never been more awkward. Lestrade hurriedly thanked Molly for her autopsy report and ran.

So that's what they meant when they said they could tell you've just had a damn good shag.

Lestrade dropped his head onto his steering wheel and whimpered.

Molly was a good girl, but sometimes Lestrade wished she'd care just a little less and shut up.

* * *

Anthea was secretly laughing at him when she came to pick him up from Scotland Yard and she was unapologetic about it. Sometimes, Lestrade wished Molly was a little more like her.

"Mister Holmes told me to apologize on his behalf at not coming to pick you up himself." Anthea told him. "I think he's just embarrassed. It's adorable."

Lestrade grunted, flushing. "It's fine."

"Another thing I think is adorable is you surreptitiously trying to get Hooper to stop talking... and failing." Anthea smiled.

"Good to know your opinion." Lestrade groaned.

"She's sweet." Anthea continued.

"Too sweet." Lestrade agreed.

"It's funny." Lestrade glared at his mysterious friend. "No, I'm joking. It's hilarious."

"Anthea? Shut up. Please."

"Just this once."

* * *

Mycroft was in his car on his way to Sandy and Jonah's where he was to meet up with Lestrade when his phone rang with a call from the man in question. He connected the call. "Gregory?"

_"Hey Mycroft."_ Lestrade smiled into his ear, the one drop of sun in an altogether monotonous day. _"How're you doing?"_

He could hear Anthea's amused voice on the other end with his boyfriend. _"Ask him-..."_ Then her words trailed off into a hushed whisper and Lestrade let out a startled, half-laugh.

_"What, in French?"_ he asked her.

Mycroft promptly hung up. He loved Gregory and Anthea, he really did. But sometimes he didn't want to know what those two got into.

He really didn't.

* * *

"...I would've, and it would've been hilarious, but Mycroft hung up on me!" Mycroft heard Lestrade finish recounting his story to Jonah and Sandy when he walked into the restaurant.

"I'm sure it would've been funnier if I hadn't been so apprehensive of the whole thing." he chimed in with a smile as he approached the table that was always reserved for them.

"Mycroft, you bastard!" Lestrade grinned. "You hung up on me!"

"Yes, I did. Although, I maintain that it was for my own mental defense."

Sandy flicked a match and lit a candle on the table with an impish grin. She then got up from where she was sitting and Jonah stood from where he was leaning on the table to let the two have a little privacy. As they left, they could still hear Sandy talking. "Couple's booth, Jonah. Couple's booth."

"It's reserved now, Sandy. We'll make one of the other booths the couple's booth." Jonah said placatingly.

"Hm, okay."

Mycroft and Lestrade sat in companionable silence as they read the menu.

Lestrade suddenly cleared his throat. "Hey, Mycroft?"

Mycroft looked up. "Yes, Gregory?"

"Is there anything on this menu that we haven't eaten?"

"You've never eaten the escargot." Mycroft replied quickly.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Anything edible?"

Mycroft laughed and shook his head. "Well, we've been regulars for years now."

"I know!" Lestrade chuckled back brightly. "It's kind of weird."

"We've eaten meals that arn't even listed on the menu." Mycroft hummed thoughtfully.

"Sandy's deep-fried fruits." Lestrade shuddered.

"Crispy pasta." Mycroft winced.

"Damned revolutionaries." Lestrade shook his head gravely. He glanced at Mycroft at the same moment Mycroft did the same and they burst out into laughter.

"Sherlock fainted at a crime scene when he saw me." Lestrade snickered.

"I heard your name being whispered behind my back everywhere I went from the Buckingham Palace to Vauxhall Cross." Mycroft shook his head. "A horror for security."

"Sherrinford heard about it all the way in Russia. How the Hell?"

"Makes you feel so vulnerable and violated, doesn't it? The way people just _know_." Mycroft groaned.

"And the worst part about it is that we're not even surprised they do." Lestrade groaned back. Then he looked at Mycroft and smirked. "The look on Sherlock's face though... I have no regrets."

Mycroft chuckled back. "Gregory Lestrade, is there nothing that can keep you down for very long?"

"Not even if the Queen herself knew about my love affairs." Lestrade said brightly.

Mycroft just smiled mysteriously and said nothing.

"No... seriously?"

"That woman's got eyes and ears everywhere." Mycroft shrugged. "Did you expect less from the ruler of England?"

"I've... I've never actually thought about that. I always thought you took care of stuff like that for her." Lestrade said.

"Surprise."

Lestrade rolled his eyes and threw his hands in the air helplessly. "I don't want to know, Mycroft. I really don't."

Mycroft just smiled at his menu. "Gregory, stop overreacting and order your food."

Lestrade just smiled back and grimaced at the lit candle between them. "Mycroft?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him. "Yes, Gregory?"

"Happy Valentines."

* * *

That night, Lestrade strolled into his flat's sitting room with his phone and called his mum. The phone rang twice before being connected.

_"Hello?"_ Beatrice's voice came from the other end.

"Hey, Mum." Lestrade smiled.

_"Oh, no. What happened this time?"_ Beatrice groaned. _"Gregory Lestrade, please don't tell me you got injured again."_

Lestrade chuckled. "Nope... just a social call."

_"Then I'm glad."_

"Uh..." Lestrade cleared his throat nervously. "I'm dating Mycroft, Mum."

There was a beat of silence. _"Oh, Mycroft. Lovely young man. I like him."_

"So, ...it's okay? That Mycroft's a guy, I mean." Lestrade grimaced at how awkward the conversation was turning out.

_"Gregory, that time you had an arguement with Eva and walked out of the house, you went and drunk-slept with a man, you even brought that photographer bloke as your plus one at Eva and Paul's wedding, you can't exactly say this wasn't forthcoming."_ Beatrice snorted, it was very ladylike.

Lestrade dropped his head in his free hand as he let out a sigh of relief. "Well, um, that's good, then."

_"Yes, it's quite good."_ Beatrice scoffed. _"I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to date again. Bring Mycroft and your other friends around sometime, we'll have tea."_

"Yeah, okay." Lestrade smiled.

_"What are you smiling about, Gregory? I can hear it in your voice."_ Beatrice asked curiously.

"You know, when I was living in Dorset with you and everybody else, you told me to come back to London with Sherlock, John, and Mycroft and to stop bumming off everybody else's happinesses, and go find my own." Lestrade trailed off.

_"I remember."_ Beatrice encouraged. Five minutes later, Mrs. Lestrade put down her reciever and burst into tears of happiness for her son's good fortune.

"I don't know, Mum. I think I found it."


	90. Enthralled

Enthralled

_"Hullo!"_ Lestrade grunted sleepily.

"Talk to me, what've we got?" He half sat up and squinted at his bedside clock, it was still five o'clock in the morning. "Who's dead? And where did it happen?"

_"Um, Greg? Hello? It's me, Alex!"_ The tinny voice on the end of the line exclaimed with a laugh.

Lestrade blinked groggily for a moment or two. Then he jerked fully awake. "Holy shit! Alex?"

Alex let out another laugh. _"Photographer, brunette, no criminal record, and we used to shag. Hi! Remember me?"_

Lestrade grinned. "Yeah, I remember. Haven't heard from you in ages! What's going on with you these days? You still looking for that mysterious Czech one night stand of yours?"

Alex snorted. _"No, his name is Slansky. How hot is that? He's a bartender."_

"Mhm, nice." Lestrade grunted.

_"Not just nice, it's awesome!"_ Alex gushed. _"We're together, he knows a little English and he's teaching me Czech. We moved to New York a year ago and I got a professional photography gig over here."_

"That's great!" Lestrade grinned, then he paused. "Wait, 'over here'?"

_"Yeah, it's pretty permanent that we're living over here, we've both got long standing jobs and all. But one of Sky's cousins recently moved to Dorset and we're going to go visit. Thought you might want to hang out a bit while we're over there. I can't wait to introduce you and Sky, you guys will get along great!"_

Lestrade was silent for a long while. "Sorry, it's still five in the morning over here, Alex, I'll get back to you on that topic when I'm more awake."

There was a pause on the other end as Alex calculated the time difference. _"Oh, shit, I woke you up? Sorry man! I'll call back later!"_

"You do that."

Lestrade hung up and lay back down. This was going to be interesting.

* * *

"I can't believe I agreed to this." Mycroft groaned to himself, then he turned to Sherlock. "I can't believe _you_ agreed to this!"

"I bribed him with cases." Lestrade smirked at the two Holmeses.

"Greg, I really hope you know what you're doing." John fretted quietly.

Lestrade grinned back nervously. "So do I."

There were three cars waiting to take them all to Dorset, one for Lestrade and Mycorft, one for John and Sherlock, and a van for Anthea, Donovan, Molly, Dimmock, and Mrs. Hudson.

"I promised Mum I'd visit with friends." Lestrade shrugged helplessly. "Good thing she's already met most of you all." The only people who had yet to meet Beatrice Lestrade were the women, Anthea, Donovan, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson. Dimmock had met her once at Lestrade and Eva's wedding a long time ago.

Beatrice was enthralled. Maisie was spazzing in excitement. Eva was looking forward to it and the two men both had healthy levels of caution. Little Darren was single-mindedly excited to see 'Uncle Greg' again.

"I have a feeling that this will end in tears." Mycroft said aside to Lestrade as he prevented Sherlock from sneaking any experiments into his car.

Lestrade just crossed his fingers.

* * *

Beatrice thought Dimmock and Molly were a pair of bunnies. That was the first thing Lestrade thought when he saw his mother cooing over the couple.

Beatrice Lestrade was not a woman who _'coo'ed._ Not to people anyway, not even to Darren... and Darren was adorable.

Maisie wanted to marry Anthea's stilettos. And if Peter didn't keep an eye on her, she totally would. Anthea would give them her blessing.

Lestrade always knew his family was crazy.

Mycroft and Sherlock were lodged in each others' proverbial horns for the eighth time that day. John and Donovan were being thoroughly charmed by Darren who would not leave his mother's lap in the presence of so many strangers. Mrs. Hudson was having tea with Paul and talking about something or another.

Lestrade just sat and watched his family and friends with a great sense of satisfaction.

Why? The house was still standing.

Proud moment.

* * *

Alex and Sladsky joined the party the day after and Anthea and Lestrade had to keep one of them between Mycroft and Alex just in case something happened.

Just to be on the safe side.

Mrs. Hudson thought the pair were total darlings. "Mrs. Turner's got married ones." She boasted. "And soon enough, I'll have my own married ones." She said brightly, glancing around to make sure Sherlock and John were not around to overhear her.

"Oh, we're not married yet." Alex chuckled.

"Not yet." Sladsky nodded in a tone that indicated that it was a matter of time. Mrs. Hudson and Alex looked at him. The Czech reddened and hid his face in his hands. "No, no. Not meant to tell." he groaned helplessly.

Alex just laughed and patted his shoulder. "Not yet?"

"Not yet. June." The bartender confessed sheepishly.

Maisie and Donovan 'aww'ed.

* * *

"So, you're getting married." Lestrade smiled when he, Alex, and Dimmock were coming back from a shopping trip from the nearest grocery.

"Yup, apparently." Alex beamed. "Who would've thought, right?"

"Seems like a really good guy, that Skad-... huh?" Dimmock faltered.

"Sladsky." Lestrade and Alex chorused. "Or, Sky for short." Alex added. "Pronounced; skee."

"So, you boys single?" Alex asked them.

"Nope, me and Molly are dating and Lestrade's dating Mycroft." Dimmock replied.

"So you _did_ end up with him?" Alex crowed gleefully. "I knew it! Good for you!"

"It was a kind of recent development, actually." Lestrade admitted.

"What? I remember you liked him years ago!" Alex exclaimed, aghast.

"Alot's happened in the last three or four years." Lestrade groused.

"Sherlock died." Dimmock nodded soberly.

"Mycroft covered the whole thing up." Lestrade continued sourly.

"You got fired and moved here to Dorset." Dimmock reminded.

"For three years."

"And then Sherlock came back."

"So did Mycroft."

"They all went to Dorset to drag you back."

"I almost didn't come."

"But you did. And things went back to how they were."

"And then Christmas happened."

"And New Year's."

"And we got together." Lestrade concluded. "...And then Sherrinford happened."

Lestrade's two companions stopped and looked at him strangely. "Who?" They asked in unison.

"Nevermind." Lestrade shook his head as the house drifted into view.

"But I really am happy for you, you know." Alex smiled at his friend. "Mycroft scares the shit out of me, but he seems to be a good guy... under all that."

"Waaaaay deep down." Dimmock nodded sagely.

"Shut up." Lestrade laughed.

"Mycroft and Greg, sitting in a tree." Alex sing-songed. "F-U-C-..."

And Lestrade tackled him into the rhododendron bush in the garden outside the house. Mycroft stood in the doorway and watched them with a bland and slightly disappointed expression that said 'In a tree? Really? That's the best you can come up with? I expected more from you.'

Lestrade thought he'd love to kiss that face. But he didn't. Darren was in the vicinity.

* * *

There was a quiet knock on the door of Mycroft's hotel room that night. Mycroft considered ignoring it for a moment before answering.

Alex was standing in the hall, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, a small box tucked under one arm. "Um, hi."

Mycroft blinked. "Good evening."

"Um, I promised Greg these wouldn't see the light of day, felt bad to Sky for keeping them, thought it was a waste to just throw them away." He held the box out to Mycroft. "I think it's fine to give them to you because you're Greg's boyfriend. Um-... don't hate me for them, okay?"

And the photographer was gone.

Mycroft locked the door after himself and opened the box on his bed. Ten minutes later, he called Anthea. "What day is it today?"

_"Feburary the 18th."_ was the reply.

"Hm, odd. It's not my birthday..." Mycroft hummed thoughtfully and hung up.

* * *

Lestrade found the pictures of himself that Alex took in Mycroft's possession the next day.

"Mycroft, give them back!" He lunged, mortified, but Mycroft held the pictures out of reach.

"No, I got them from Alex and it would be quite rude to just give them away." Mycroft smirked.

"That sneak-...!" Lestrade calmed himself down forcefully. "Mycroft."

"Yes, Gregory?"

"Give them here."

"Never."

Lestrade pressed his lips together and gave up with a huff, flushing red. He wasn't even dressed for some of the shots for God's sakes!

He was going to kill the photographer. Slowly and painfully.

* * *

"So, how's life?" Maisie asked curiously when the two siblings were finally alone for once. They were hanging around outside in the garden while everybody was inside.

"...Interesting." Lestrade replied as nonchalantly as possible.

"Oh, I heard a pause there." Maisie smirked. "How interesting are we talking?"

"The kind of interesting that makes you wish for boredom." Lestrade rolled his eyes exaggeratedly.

"Are we talking about your sex life here?" Maisie teased.

Lestrade leveled his sister a look. "I'll pretend you didn't just ask that question." Maisie tossed her head back and laughed.

"Greg? Can I talk to you about something?" Maisie asked after a prolonged moment of silence.

"What is it, Maisie?" Lestrade asked, slightly startled at his sister's uncharacteristically seriousness. He had been trying to fix the damage done to the rhododendron bush, but it could wait.

"I - um - I wanted you to know before I told everybody else." Maisie trailed off and Lestrade nodded encouragingly. The woman took a deep breath. "I'm pregnant."

Lestrade was hugging her before the information had even had a chance to sink in properly. "Christ, that's wonderful news!"

Maisie yelped at the sudden hug, but hugged back tightly. "I know, right? Peter and I got married so long ago, I thought it'd never happen! I thought I might be infertile or something!"

Lestrade would forever deny it... but he cried. Just a little.

It was okay though, because Maisie was busy bawling her eyes out.

Lestrade didn't think he had ever been prouder of his sister.


	91. Painful

Painful

"So..." Beatrice smiled at Sherlock, ignoring the chaos of having her close-living relatives, three coppers, two doctors, two Holmeses, and a landlady seated at her overcrowded dinner table. Alex and Sladsky had returned to New York that morning. "Tell me a bit about your family, Sherlock."

Sherlock choked on his food, Mycroft glared around Dimmock at him, John perked up, and Lestrade was overcome with a sense of forboding.

Sherlock covered his mouth with a napkin for a moment as he blindly wondered how to answer a question like that. "Um-... as you well know, Mycroft's the British Government, our mother was a Cold War operative and currently lives in our country home, our father disappeared, and apparently I also have an older brother who's existence I had not known about until this month." After nicely summing it up, he resumed eating.

John coughed pointedly with a glare toward Sherlock and put on his most disappointed look. Lestrade leaned his elbow on the table, to the looks of disapproval from his mother, and rested his chin on his palm, and watched the scene pan out.

Mycroft rolled his eyes with a long-suffering sigh and glared at Sherlock. "Sherlock, Father did not 'disappear', I hope you don't really believe Mummy's bedtime stories... he was clearly assassinated."

Sherlock returned the glare. "Are you talking about that fighter plane crash bogus Mummy still thinks we'd fall for?"

"Honestly brother, I expected more." Mycroft sniffed disdainfully. "He was sighted in the United States three years after the alleged crash. I'm talking about the D.C. shootings."

"Ah, of course." Sherlock hummed. "The D.C. shootings."

Eva coughed above the murmurings as she stood from her seat. "Excuse me, I think it's about time I got Darren ready for bed." And she hurried away, shrugging helplessly at Lestrade's apologetic expression.

The silence was thick enough to feel tangible on skin.

Beatrice cleared her throat. "Lovely."

"Enlightening." Lestrade agreed sarcastically under his breath around his glass of water.

"I remember I was a Cold War operative myself." Beatrice said reminiscently. "Slipped into the business just as the Cold War was thawing out."

Lestrade choked on his water. "Mum!" he exclaimed, aghast.

"What?" Beatrice shrugged coolly. "They can't hope to boast that all the eccentrics at the table come from their family." she said simply.

"My mum got bitten by a crocodile!" Dimmock piped up.

"Well, if we're bringing out the family ghouls, might as well tell you my great-uncle had catalepsy and got locked up in a morgue once." Donovan grinned tentatively.

"I got locked in the morgue, once." Molly confessed quietly. "I lost my keys."

She completely missed the topic of conversation, but nobody had the heart to call her out on it.

"So, what's this about a brother?" Paul asked curiously.

"His name's Sherrinford." John told him.

"He's an - um -..." Lestrade glanced at Donovan and Dimmock and trailed off. "... He works at an art museum." he finished lamely.

Mycroft snorted. "He certainly does." He murmured under his breath to Lestrade.

"Long lost brother, kind of." John tried and failed to explain.

"It's a Holmes thing." Sherlock said and dropped it at that.

Peter burst out laughing. "Any other interesting 'Holmes things'?"

"He keeps odd things lying around in his flat." Donovan piped in, nodding his head in Sherlock's direction. "For science."

"And, for the record, I hold a minor position in the British Government, despite how my brother exaggerates." Mycroft said to Beatrice.

"Of course." Beatrice nodded back indulgently. Mycroft smiled wincingly. "I'll say it again, I was a Cold War operative. MI5."

"How exciting." Mycroft grated out.

"I know a spook when I see one, Mister Holmes." Beatrice smirked back.

"Mum!" Lestrade exclaimed again. "Play nice."

His mother put on an innocent expression. "I am, Gregory, I am."

"So, a crocodile, huh?" That was from Paul to Dimmock.

"Got it on vacation in Australia." Dimmock grinned. "Monstrous thing, she's got a scar, but no extensive damage."

"Thank God."

"Morgues are such intreguing places to be, I should think." Mrs. Hudson smiled at Molly.

"No, not really. You get used to the dead people." Molly blustered.

Peter paused, fork poised just inches from his open mouth, and coughed, lowering it with a slightly nauseous expression. "Wow." he croaked behind a napkin.

"Your PA is just a baby compared to the ones we had back in the day." Beatrice was saying to Mycroft reprimandingly. "She's too young for the business."

"She doesn't kill anybody, Mom." Lestrade groaned back. "And they use guns these days. Perfectly safe."

"I could've told you that myself." Beatrice sniffed. "Have you seen her perfectly manicured nails? Those are not the fingertips of a killer. And I'll bet you those stilettos are only good for stabbing opponents in the eye, have you ever tried to get those stains out of clothes? Horrible!"

"Don't listen to her." Lestrade whispered, leaning over toward Mycroft. "She has always been more of a lie-smith than a spymaster."

Mycroft looked thoughtful for a moment. "I think... I need to do more research on this matter when we return to London."

Lestrade just shook his head and smiled.

* * *

"So." Lestrade prompted when he found Mycroft outside in the garden with a smoke later that evening. "Are there any other surprises I need to know about the Holmes family?"

Mycroft chuckled. "No, just Sherrinford."

"Yep, just a long lost brother." Lestrade sighed sarcastically. "Nothing serious."

"You must understand that I am not a completely honest man about the matter of my family." Mycroft sighed. "But, neither am I a dishonest one."

"Then, what are you?" Lestrade asked slowly, crossing his arms.

"Merely... not forthcoming." Mycroft decided, nodding to himself decisively.

"Sure, because that makes everything all better." Lestrade's tone was dryer than the Sahara.

They just stood there silently for a prolonged moment.

Mycroft sucked in a lungful of smoke an blew it out. "My father - Siger Holmes - he is a-... sore spot in our family. We don't talk about him... ever." he said finally.

Lestrade spared him a glance and returned to staring at the abused rhododendron he had tackled Alex into the other day. It was all tilted to one side, now. "Did I ever tell you about _my_ dad?" he asked suddenly.

Mycroft blinked. "You've mentioned him a few times in passing, but you've never really spoken about him."

"Oh. Well he's, um-..." Lestrade gestured at nothing in particular. "How should I say...? Sick." Mycroft looked at him sideways. "He has - uh - brain problems, lives in a medical facility. On good days he can come out and play with Darren, who just adores him, but on some really bad days he doesn't even remember me or Maisie. Sometimes he thinks I'm still seven years old and freaks out when he finds out I'm a cop, keeps asking if his son is in trouble or something." Lestrade shook his head with a bitter smile. "I never know what to say to him when he asks me that. I don't visit him alot."

They lapsed into silence again.

"And, well, you know about my mum now." Lestrade continued. "And she can't talk alot about her past as a Secret Service agent. I don't know a whole lot about my parents' pasts. And I don't need to, necessarily. I like them how they are now... except Dad's brain problems. That I can definitely do without."

Lestrade heard a sigh and saw a cloud of smoke out of the corner of his eye. "My mother met Father in Dublin, both dabbled in British Intelligence... well, what I really mean is, Mother was a young lady of social importance because of her family and moved in only the most informed circles of society, and Father was a Holmes."

"Let me guess, he held a minor position in the British Government?" Lestrade asked with a smile.

Mycroft returned it. "Yes, he did." He crushed his smoked cigarette out and stuffed the butt back into the pack. "But then he slipped up. When I was fifteen years old father was, shall we say, caught in the wrong place, in the wrong time, with the wrong people. Things went south, he faked his death, and disappeared."

"I'm beginning to see a pattern with you Holmeses." Lestrade grunted.

"But unlike Sherlock, he left with no intention of returning and he never did." Mycroft sighed. "He lived out the rest of his life in the United States and died of unnatural causes. He turned up dead in Washington D.C. I believe his past simply caught up to him."

"And you don't talk about him."

"Mummy believes he left to protect us... he just didn't run fast enough." Mycroft shook his head grimly. "Or far enough."

"I'm sorry." Lestrade murmured.

"Don't be." Mycroft replied.

"Just... be careful, you know?" Lestrade told him, slightly awkwardly. "What happened once can happen again."

"Believe me, I've learned from his mistakes." Mycroft assured him. "And, in all honesty, I'm more afraid of your mother than I am of anything out there."

Lestrade snorted out a laugh. "Try growing up with her."

"Evidence of her nurturing is no doubt evident in your survival amongst Holmeses." Mycroft teased.

"I thank God for her everyday." Lestrade grinned back.

* * *

"You Holmeses..." John sighed in exasperation, rubbing his temples after Sherlock finished telling him about his father. "Your family is _all_ bonkers." They had just gotten back to their hotel with the rest of the group.

"Well, that's just how things are." Sherlock shrugged. "And then Mummy went and told us that Father was living in America for a _witness protection program_ and that one day he'd come back. I guess she held on hope that he would."

John blinked and looked at Sherlock. There was something wry and bitter in his voice. Something that sounded like knowing.

The consulting detective and his flatmate were sharing a hotel room and Sherlock was lounged on the double bed, legs crossed, fiddling with his phone, not looking at John.

A tell that his expression would alter from its apathic mold if he did.

"You knew...?" John said, more a statement than a question. "You knew that Mycroft was lying when he told me to tell you that Irene Adler was in the witness protection program."

"It's Mycroft." Sherlock shrugged. "And we are Holmeses. Mother lied to us to save us from knowing about his death. Mycroft would use the same excuse for similar reasons, wouldn't he?"

"She's dead." John told him.

Sherlock finally lowered his phone and looked at his boyfriend disdainfully. "John, do you really think Mycroft would warn me that she would die, and not expect me to do anything about it?"

It took the ex-army medic a few moments to let the implications settle in. "You mean she's-...?"

"Alive." Sherlock replied simply.

"And Mycroft-..."

"Practically gave me permission to interfere with the execution." Sherlock shrugged. "How could I resist?"

"B-but... why?" John questioned curiously.

Sherlock smiled. "Because he could."

* * *

"Admit it." Lestrade grinned over at Mycroft. "You're just a big softie."

"Hardly." Mycroft sniffed. "I could always use favors from Sherlock."

"You let him save her."

"He was fond of her." Mycroft waved him off casually. "It doesn't happen very often. I suppose, for that reason alone, she was worth saving."

"Softie." Lestrade jibed.

"Reasonable." Mycroft returned coolly.

He smoothed over a painful memory with the existence of a greater, better one. Not that he'd admit it in a million years. Lestrade smiled slowly. "You're a good older brother, Mycroft."

"Let me know if Sherlock agrees." Mycroft said to him seriously. "National Security Protocol requires me to evacuate the city for safety reasons."

Lestrade snorted. "Sure."

"Oh, I'm very serious, Gregory."

"We'll see, won't we?"

"Hm, No. It'll never happen." Mycroft smiled.

"Darn it."

* * *

A/N: Let's face it, Mycroft knows Sherlock saved Irene because she caused alot of trouble for him and the British Government. He wouldn't just send her out somewhere in the Middle East to be executed and _not_ have proof of it succeeding. He'd hear about it... and then not do anything? Yep, he planned it.


	92. Spying

Spying

The windows of the unmarked silver sedan were frosted over from the chill but the man inside paid no mind to the temperature. He had a phone gripped tightly in his hand and clutched to his chest like a protective charm.

Then, he heard the sound of wheels screeching in the underground parking garage and looked up to see headlights.

"Finally." The man inside the sedan grumbled to himself.

But something was wrong. Horribly wrong.

The newly arrived car didn't stop, didn't even slow down. In fact, it picked up speed and the man inside the sedan could only scream out curses a moment before the second vehicle rammed into the side of the sedan, crushing it under-tire.

A few moments later, the second vehicle inched backward off the sedan and a man stepped out of the shotgun seat.

The man inside the sedan was bloody and unconscious, but he let out a low moan of pain.

The man from the assaulting car pulled out a gun from the inside pocket of his jacket and fired three shots through the shattered sedan window, killing the man inside instantly.

Then he wrangled the phone out of the dead man's hands and returned to his own car before it let out a shrill screech and tore off out of the parking lot.

* * *

Lestrade yawned as he hurried into his office that morning, absently waving at the CCTV camera as he passed, it was more of a habit now than a salute to Mycroft or anybody else who might be watching.

His phone buzzed. _Good morning. -MH_

_Morning to you too. -Lestrade_

_I'll be in Istanbul for the next few days for work. -MH_

_Okay. Have a safe trip. Call when you land. -Lestrade_

_Of course. -MH_

* * *

"What's on our schedule today?" Lestrade grunted when he met up with Donovan after being called out to investigate a homicide.

"We've got a mortuary appointment for the autopsy report on an unidentified John Doe." Donovan grumbled. "And, just our luck, no witnesses."

Lestrade took a look around the relatively empty underground parking lot. "I can see that."

"We talked to the security for this place and they don't have CCTV." Donovan added.

"Outside? What about street cameras?"

"We've got people on it." Donovan nodded. Then she motioned to a silver sedan with a rather large dent in the driver's side. "Our victim was found here at six o'clock this morning. One of the reserved parkers came in early and found him, called the police the moment he saw blood."

"Seeing as we're here, I'm guessing this is leaning more toward murder than accident." Lestrade said as he approached the vehicle.

Donovan nodded. "Evidence of the crash is what we all saw first untill you see the victim."

Lestrade raised his eyebrows and peered into the shattered window. His expression turned grim the moment he saw the victim's head. He pulled back and frowned. "How many shots were fired?"

"The M.E. said three." Donovan replied sounding quite like she was struggling against the urge to vomit.

"Three shots... to the head." Lestrade grunted. "No wonder we can't identify him."

The man no longer had an identifiable face.

"We-..." Donovan swallowed thickly. "We're running his fingerprints right now."

"If you want to puke, go outside." Lestrade told her flatly.

"Nah, I'm good." Donovan forced out.

"Okay Donovan, when you're feeling up to it go and check up on where we are with the CCTV and reports on missing persons." Donovan nodded. "Oh, and the tire marks." Lestrade added.

Donovan grunted in reply and left.

Lestrade leaned back over his victim and checked the man's pockets for any personal effects that would tell him who he was. The victim's pockets were empty, no wallet, no spare change, no phone.

Lestrade pulled back and frowned. The victim's hands were frozen by rigor mortis, clasped to his chest like he was trying to protect something precious.

Lestrade searched the man's surroundings, under the dashboard, between the front seats, even the back seats but came up empty.

There was nothing. There was a high chance a vital piece of evidence had been stolen.

He hated cases like this.

* * *

Lestrade had just gotten back to his office from the morgue with the autopsy results when he had a visitor.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade?" Lestrade looked up to see a woman with flaxen hair and flawless skin enter his office.

Lestrade just knew that his day was about to get much worse. "Can I help you?" he asked warily as he sat down at his desk.

"My name is Alice Skardon, I'm from CTC." She introduced herself smartly and Lestrade inwardly groaned.

"And how may I help the Counter Terrorist Command?" he asked her as politely as possible.

"I've heard that a homicide case has crossed your desk this morning." Skardon said. "I believe that this man may be connected to an ongoing investigation of ours."

"Connected, how?" Lestrade asked curiously.

"We've been investigating potential acts of terrorism and one of those who we have been keeping under watch suddenly disappeared sometime last night." Skardon explained. "We have reason to believe that your victim is our man."

"Do you...?" Lestrade hummed thoughtfully. "Well, I'm afraid he won't be of much use to you. As you know, he's dead."

"And the people responsible for his death?" Skardon pointed out. "Look, I'm not asking you to hand over this case to the CTC, I'm asking that we work together to get to the bottom of this case."

Lestrade thought about it for a moment. "What's his name?" he asked, referring to the victim.

"William Klaus. He was a science professor." Skardon told him.

"Do you have any idea why he was murdered?" was Lestrade's next question.

"I believe he had caught wind of someone at his workplace planning a terrorist attack and was killed for attempting blackmail. Or perhaps our terrorist simply killed him to shut him up." Skardon hypothesized.

Lestrade nodded to himself as he wrote the victim's name down in his notebook. Then he tossed a file over the desk toward her. "That's his autopsy report." He said.

Skardon took it with a smile.

* * *

"William Klaus; aged forty-seven, university professor, no enemies, family, or close friends." Donovan sighed. "This guy was practically a hermit. He didn't exist outside his teaching job. Didn't even have a phone or a computer."

"This is looking less and less like a regular homicide case." Lestrade grunted around his cup of coffee. "The less people know about you, the less reason they have to kill you."

"Do you really think we're edging into the counter-terrorism category?" Donovan growled. She hated the thought of dealing with interdepartmental politics just as much as Lestrade did.

"I hope not." Lestrade groaned.

* * *

Surprisingly, Lestrade's next visitor on the case was not CTC Detective Skardon, but a man who introduced himself as Richard Peel of Her Majesty's Security Service.

"MI5..." Lestrade smiled stiffly. "Well, we _are_ moving up the ladder, arn't we?" Donovan looked just as comfortable as he felt.

"Don't worry, I'm not trying to step on anybody's toes." Peel smiled sympathetically. "I was working the joint investigation with Detective Skardon when Professor Klaus was murdered..." He made a helpless gesture. "Her loss is my loss. If there's anything I can help with, don't be hesitant to ask."

Lestrade thought for a moment. "Detective Skardon mentioned that Professor Klaus may have been killed because he uncovered a potential terrorist attack. Do you have any idea as to who was behind the threat?"

Peel looked grim. "If we knew that, Detective Inspector Lestrade, we'd be out there arresting him."

"... Alright." Lestrade said slowly. "Well, if you do find anything out, you know where to find me."

"Of course." Peel smiled back. "I won't take anymore of your time." And he left.

Donovan stared after him for a moment or two. "Well that was weird." she remarked flatly.

"Yeah." Lestrade sighed, sinking into his seat. "Weird."

* * *

The next day, Lestrade and Donovan stopped by Professor Klaus's small flat near his university.

"Looks cheery." Donovan grumbled after the landlord let them in.

Lestrade poked a life-sized human anatomy model that was situated by the door. "What field of education did Professor Klaus specialize in, did you say?"

"Biology, I think." Donovan consulted her notes and nodded. "Yeah. Biology. Whatever that means." She resumed poking around inside the flat, randomly opening and shutting cupboards looking for something out of place. "Feels like Holmes's flat." she shuddered.

Lestrade gingerly picked up a small jar of questionable content and grimaced. "No kidding."

There was a faint rustle at the window and both coppers froze, exchanged glances, and Lestrade gestured that he'd take point. He gripped his baton and inched toward the window just as the smudgy outline of a shadow fell across the dirty pane.

The latch on the window rattled a few times and fell open. Then, the window jerked open an inch before two gloved hands wedged themselves in the open crack and pushed the window open the rest of the way.

Lestrade held his breath, raised his baton and...

_"Sherlock!"_ Lestrade exclaimed with a huge exhale when the detective poked his head inside the window.

"Freak!" Donovan screeched, hand pressed to her chest. The exclamation was more out of habit and exasperation than insult.

"Christ!" John yelped at all the commotion, obviously not to be outdone in the competition for 'startled exclamations'.

"I only answer to one of those." Sherlock quipped glibly.

"Uh-..." Donovan looked to Lestrade for guidance.

"Mycroft." Sherlock threw back in explanation.

"Mum's the word." John added sheepishly.

"Lestrade is the only exception to that rule." Sherlock scowled at his flatmate.

"What's going on here?" Donovan asked suspiciously. "You two should be arrested for breaking and entering!"

Lestrade made an abortive gesture to cut through the noise. "Shut up!" He pointed at Sherlock. "Explain. _Now_."

"Mycroft blackmailed me into taking on a case for him." Sherlock said. "He seemed quite certain that Professor Klaus was murdered for something directly linked to MI5."

"Directly linked, how?" Lestrade asked suspiciously.

"CTC and MI5 were joint investigating a potential terrorist cell when the murder occurred." John explained, then he leaned close to Lestrade and lowered his voice so that Donovan did not overhear them. "He seems to think that Professor Klaus was murdered and that the agents and officers on watch-..." John trailed off uncomfortably. "He thinks either they've got a hand in it, or they just let it happen." he spat out. "He asked Sherlock to get to the bottom of this case because he doesn't know if he can trust an inside source."

Lestrade glanced at Donovan and frowned. "How sure is he?"

"Fifty-fifty." John shrugged. "It may be a regular homicide made possible by a lousy stake-out, or it's political in some way, we don't know yet."

Lestrade sighed. "This case can't get any worse, can it?"

Suddenly, Sherlock perked up like a hound, apparently sensing something, and he rushed into Professor Klaus's office, doing his usual detecting. Then he ran back to rejoin them. "It can." he said to Lestrade in passing. "_Run!_"

Lestrade and John didn't question it. They just did as Sherlock guided them. Donovan followed her superior, though a little baffled as they ran out of the flat like bats out of Hell on the consulting Satan's heels.

"What the Hell?" the woman shrieked.

"Sherlock, do you mind expla-..." Lestrade's complaint was cut short by a 'whump' and a heat wave knocked them over. Lestrade shielded his face and stared in shock at what remained of Professor Klaus's flat. Fire spewed out of the shattered windows and smoke mushroomed on its heels. "Ohhh, nevermind."

They just stood there and watched the flames lick the sky until the firemen arrived.


	93. Compromising

Compromising

_Are you alright? -MH_

Lestrade smiled weakly at the text as he was leaving his office.

_A little shaken, but unharmed, thanks to Sherlock. -Lestrade_

_Perhaps you should let CTC take over the case? -MH_

_Since when has a bomb ever stopped me from investigating a case? -Lestrade_

_I worry. -MH_

_I think I should make light of the situation and joke 'constantly?' but I'll just settle with 'I know'. -Lestrade_

_Good. -MH_

_I will be back tomorrow. -MH_

_That's great! -Lestrade_

_You should get yourself checked on, just to be on the safe side. -MH_

_Nonsense. What I need is paracetamol and my bed. -Lestrade_

_And sleep would also be good. -Lestrade_

_Don't play smart. -MH_

_And don't overwork yourself. -MH_

_Yes, Mother. -Lestrade_

_I'm just saying. -MH_

_Since you tend to fall asleep at work. -MH_

_I'll be fine. -Lestrade_

_You were nearly blown up. Excuse my worry. -MH_

_You be safe too, Mycroft. -Lestrade_

_Always. -MH_

_Goodnight. -MH_

* * *

"I heard about what happened at Professor Klaus's flat." Detective Skardon said when she met Lestrade.

"Yeah, you and the rest of Scotland Yard." was Lestrade's wry reply.

"I was just trying to make conversation." Skardon's remark was equally as dry, but there was a sympathetic quirk to her eyebrows. "Are you okay?"

"I'm understandably upset." Lestrade shrugged.

"Of course." Skardon rolled her shoulders in a sort of 'that's life' gesture.

"Mind telling me why a law-abiding professor who lived under a rock and only emerged to lecture was killed and his flat bombed?" Lestrade asked bluntly.

"We'll know as soon as we catch the people responsible. But until then, my guess is as good as yours." Skardon sighed.

"Right, of course." Lestrade said with a wincing smile. "You'd have _warned_ me if you thought my guys were in danger, wouldn't you?"

Skardon stiffened. "Of course. We're on the same side here."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Look, Detective Skardon, we both just want to get to the bottom of this case, right?"

Skardon blinked. "Yes, of course."

"And in order to achieve that goal, you'd be honest with what information you'd give me, correct?" Lestrade continued.

"I don't think I like what I think you're trying to insinuate." Skardon snapped.

"You said CTC and MI5 were watching Professor Klaus." Lestrade pressed on. "How did he get past the officers or agents on stake-out?"

"Careful, Detective Inspector." Skardon said icily. "You're treading on very thin ice."

"Come on, Detective Skardon." Lestrade retorted, voice lowered into a growl. "Inquiring minds want to know."

They stared each other down for a long moment, neither backing down. Two things were made very clear in that moment. The first was that Detective Skardon was a very tough lady.

Unfortunately for her, the second was that Lestrade wouldn't let her leave without some answers.

Her eyes fell shut and she let out a heavy sigh. "Alright."

Compromise. Lestrade took a proverbial step back.

"When I told you that Professor Klaus was under watch for possibly being associated with a terror group, I wasn't being entirely honest." Skardon admitted. "We suspected Professor Klaus to _be_ the terror group."

"We caught wind of... suspicious activities." Skardon told him gravely. "Unusual financial transactions, out-of-place equipment being delivered, that sort of thing. We narrowed our pool of suspects and put the resulting list of personnel under watch but we kept a good distance, we couldn't afford to be spotted."

Lestrade sank into his desk chair. "Do I want to know what made you keep your distance?"

Skardon clasped her hands in front of herself. The first sign of insecurity she had shown since she met Lestrade.

"It was the strange equipment and materials." she muttered. "We have reason to believe that someone, most likely Professor Klaus, was making some sort of biochemical weapon."

Lestrade ran and hand through his hair. "Shit."

"And, whoever killed him, I believe suspected that Professor Klaus had some incriminating evidence hidden in his flat and instead of going though the trouble of searching it out..."

"Blew it up." Lestrade finished for her.

Skardon nodded soberly. "That is... what we believe."

"'Believe' is a strong word." Lestrade commented. "It implies there is data that points to that conclusion."

"My mistake, that is what we suspect." Skardon amended. "Right now we don't know anything for certain."

Lestrade blew out a breath. "Alright, do you think you can get me a list of all the people Professor Klaus associated with previous to his death?"

"Not without setting them off to the fact that we're investigating them on suspicions of terrorism." Skardon replied grimly.

"But I'm not going to be investigating a terror group." Lestrade told her. "I'm just investigating a murder."

Skardon was silent for a moment or two. "I'll see what I can do."

"Can't ask for anything more than that."

* * *

"So, explain this to me..." Donovan was saying when she and Lestrade arrived at the university to canvass Professor Klaus's office. "How does an introverted man like Professor Klaus get involved with terrorists?"

"I don't know." Lestrade hummed back as he sifted through a stack of papers on the recently deceased professor's desk.

"Seriously, we checked his financial records and found nothing out of the ordinary." Donovan continued. "Someone must be funding his work."

"Only, we don't know who, why, or how this financier and Professor Klaus met." Lestrade grunted, flipping through a calendar.

"How are the Baker Street Duo?" Donovan asked suddenly.

"They're... around." Lestrade shrugged vaguely.

"They committed a felony, Sir." Donovan reminded.

"No, not really." Lestrade shook his head. "At least, by the time Mycroft is through with this."

"You know, they make me really damn pissed off, those Holmeses." Donovan griped.

"You and me both." Lestrade shrugged. "But, that's their job. Kind of. Maybe. Not too sure."

Donovan looked pained. "Is this going to be a regular occurrence, Sir?"

Lestrade looked over at her. "Not while coppers are around." He replied honestly and Donovan scuffed her foot against the floor like a petulant child. "You're a good cop, Donovan. I can't ask you to like the things Sherlock and Mycroft do, but believe me when I say that they're a necessary evil."

Donovan looked like she wanted to protest, but bit back her remarks and sighed. "Okay."

"Okay, think..." Lestrade raked his fingers through his hair. "Detective Skardon mentioned equipment. That had to have been stashed somewhere."

"There's nothing out of the ordinary here." Donovan sighed. "And, we didn't see anything in his flat."

"So, he must've been keeping it somewhere else." Lestrade said thoughtfully. "Somewhere where he would be able to make his bioweapons without risk to others."

"A lab, or something?" Donovan suggested.

"We can ask around."

* * *

"Okay, so I asked around and Professor Klaus wasn't actively using any of the labs on campus." Donovan informed Lestrade when she finally showed up at Scotland Yard after a full day of questioning. "But apparently, Professor Klaus had a friend who hung out with him more than most. And he has a private lab that Professor Klaus sometimes visited."

Lestrade leapt up, grabbing his coat. "Then, let's go check it out."

* * *

Lestrade and Donovan pulled up in the driveway of Professor Klaus's friend - Dr. Fusch - and dismounted just as shots rang out inside the laboratory.

They exchanged startled glances and rushed toward the building when they saw John skid into view inside the building at one of the windows frantically making the 'stop' gesture.

The two cops slowed. Lestrade's phone rang and he realized John was calling him. He motioned for Donovan to wait and connected the line.

"John, what the Hell is going on?" he demanded.

_"Dr. Fusch."_ John gasped. _"It was him. He was collaborating with Professor Klaus in making some sort of bioweapon."_

"I kind of connected the dots already." Lestrade snapped impatiently. "What's going on inside the lab? We heard shots."

_"Dr. Fusch open fired on me and Sherlock when we saw the dent in his car and started asking questions."_ John told him. _"He's dead, committed suicide when he saw your car drive up..."_ John took a steady breath._ "Listen carefully, Greg. You can't come in here."_

"John, what the Hell...?"

_"In the scuffle - um..."_ John faltered. _"Samples of the bioweapon were exposed to the air. Sherlock's got the whole building on lockdown but, uh..."_ He made a helpless gesture and swallowed thickly. _"...We're contaminated."_

Lestrade's heart stopped and he heard Donovan next to him suck in a breath sharply.

"Oh, God no..."

_"Greg."_ John continued bravely._ "Sherlock and I, we can't exactly move from this place, but he deduced that a massive quantity of the bioweapon was transferred out of the lab. He thinks the terrorists are going to attack a hospital."_

"What do you mean?" Lestrade asked.

_"Right now, an American ambassador is at the hospital with his family to oversee his daughter's surgery. It started ten minutes ago. Sherlock thinks the terrorists are aiming to kill him in order to start a war, or at least cause a massive rift between England and the United States."_ John told him.

"Wait-... slow down!" Lestrade spluttered.

_"They're going to contaminate a whole hospital, Greg!"_ John shouted. _"And they're going to make it look like a deliberate assassination attempt on the U.S Ambassador by the government using terrorists as a scapegoat."_

"Alright, alright..." Lestrade juggled the information of both 'impending terrorist attack' and 'Sherlock and John are contaminated and are going to die terrible deaths'. It left him rather stunned. "Just hold on, I'll get a emergency response team down here..."

_"Greg. Hospital."_ John enunciated slowly and firmly in his 'Captain Watson' voice. _"Sherlock and I are stuck here for the time being. You need to stop the attack."_

Lestrade pressed his lips together. "Which hospital?"


	94. Suspenseful

Suspenseful

"Hey." John leaned against a doorway as he watched Sherlock flit around Dr. Kusch's body. "How are you doing?"

Sherlock barely spared him a glance. "What? Fine."

John pressed his lips together. "Okay." he said at length.

Sherlock looked at him then. "Why? Are you afraid?" John opened his mouth to protest but Sherlock beat him to the punch. "Understandable. We _are_ stuck in a biohazardous environment with a corpse and will soon turn into corpses ourselves if help doesn't arrive on time." He remarked with his usual Holmesian bluntness.

"Sherlock..." John said, exasperated.

Sherlock just gave a small, comforting smile. "It's alright, John."

_We're going to be fine._

John snorted and nodded. "I know."

The ex-army medic slid down the wall to sit on the floor and his flatmate sidled over to sit beside him. John leaned ever so slightly into Sherlock as both braced themselves for a long wait.

* * *

"Move, move!" Lestrade called out, ushering passing nurses pushing immobile patients in wheelchairs down the hall. "This is an emergency evacuation. This is not a drill!" He chanted as he struggled against the flow of patients and doctors.

"Don't rush it!" Donovan was calling out from across the hall. "No pushing or running!"

"Detective Inspector Lestrade!" Agent Peel called out as he jogged toward them. "I came just as soon as I got your message. What's the situation?"

"We have reason to believe that this hospital will soon come under bioterrorist attack." Lestrade told him gruffly, intentionally leaving out any mention of the U.S Ambassador. "We need to get these people out of here, now."

"I have people keeping eyes on the entrances." Detective Skardon chimed in as she joined them. "If there are any suspicious persons or activity there, they'll stop it."

"Do we know where the threat will strike from?" Peel asked Lestrade.

Lestrade shook his head. "Only that it will."

The frustration was palpable.

"Well gentlemen, no use standing around doing nothing." Detective Skardon declared. "Let's go look for this thing."

And the three of them separated to lead their respective teams in the search.

Lestrade glanced at his watch. The U.S Ambassador's daughter was forty minutes into surgery. It was half an hour since he left John and Sherlock. An hour and a half before Mycroft's plane lands in Heathrow. An unknown length of time till the bioweapon is unleashed.

He might be wrong, but this may be the moment any lesser man would start panicking.

Lestrade took a deep breath and got to work.

* * *

"You know..." John said, breaking a long, long silence. "If I was working on a potentially lethal bioweapon, I'd take great lengths to ensure I wouldn't be affected by it."

Sherlock scoffed. "Of course not."

"So you know, just in case there was an accident and I _did_ get infected, I'd have something... an antibiotic, vaccine, counter agent or something on hand to prevent myself from dying." John continued.

"I've looked. But there's nothing that resembles an antidote anywhere near the workspace." Sherlock droned boredly.

"What about in the rest of the building?" John asked him.

"I've checked everywhere of interest. The testing area, the offices, the storage..." Sherlock shrugged and coughed.

John sent him a worried look. "I saw a safe in Dr. Kusch's office." he remarked.

"So did I. Nothing inside that would help us." Sherlock replied.

"I didn't see a safe in Professor Klaus's office." John muttered.

"Probably didn't have one." Sherlock hummed. "A man like Professor Klaus doesn't usually invest in a safe. He has nothing to keep particularly secure."

"Unless it was an antidote." John shot back. "He'd probably want to keep that pretty safe."

"Like I've said; I checked." Sherlock groaned, impatiently.

"You know what." John got up. "I'm going to check again."

"Hurry." Sherlock called after him, not moving. "The emergency response team that Lestrade called in should be arriving sometime soon."

"Okay." John called back, making his way out of the room.

* * *

"Sir." Lestrade said urgently to the U.S Ambassador. "This is an emergency and I must ask you to leave the premises."

"Detective Inspector." The U.S Ambassador said firmly. "My daughter is in that operating theater. She can't leave. And I'm not going to leave her."

The U.S Ambassador stayed, Lestrade convinced his wife and son to evacuate, Donovan stayed in the operating theater to keep watch, and Lestrade continued searching for the bioweapon.

"Come on, where are you, you bugger?"

* * *

John found himself in Professor Klaus's office, he had searched the lab, Dr. Kusch's office, and the chemical storage area but Sherlock was right. He didn't find an antidote.

"Stop. Hold on..." John physically stopped in the middle of Professor Klaus's spacious office. "I'm thinking like Sherlock. Where would an introvert who doesn't leave his office and is unused to keeping things safe, hide something valuable?" he asked himself. "Somewhere where Sherlock wouldn't think to look..."

Suddenly, he had a moment of epiphany. "Of course! Why didn't I think of that before?"

* * *

"Detective Inspector!" Peel called out down the hall, stopping Lestrade in his tracks.

"Did you find it?" Lestrade asked him as he jogged over toward him.

Peel stepped aside from a storage room door and let Lestrade's eyes answer the question for him.

"Shit."

"I've got a response team on their way." Peel said slowly. "But they won't get here on time."

A digital timer surrounded by five steel canisters counted down twenty minutes.

"What's their ETA?" Lestrade asked him.

"Eight minutes." Peel replied grimly, staring at the ticking timer with a horrified fascination. "They won't be able to get here and disarm the weapon in time." Here being, deep inside the hospital on the the third floor versus a team of men in clumsy hazmat suits and weighed down with equipment. "They're not going to make it."

"They won't have to get _here_." Lestrade said decisively.

Peel looked at him oddly. "Excuse me?"

"Come on, just give me a hand!" Lestrade exclaimed as he grabbed one of the two handles on the sides of the bioweapon. Peel hastily grabbed the other side.

* * *

"Sherlock!" John called out triumphantly through a fit of coughs. "I found it! How's that for detective work?"

Sherlock didn't reply. John carefully sidled around Dr. Kusch's body and approached the consulting detective. "Sherlock...?"

He touched Sherlock's shoulder and gasped in horror when Sherlock's head rolled limply to the side, blood running sluggishly from his nose.

_"Sherlock!"_

* * *

"You're crazy!" Detective Skardon yelled at Lestrade as he and Peel loaded the bioweapon into an empty ambulance.

"Do you have a better idea?" Lestrade snapped back as he ripped open the driver's door.

Peel secured the bioweapon in the back of the ambulance and climbed out. "The response team is two minutes out." He informed them.

"Tell them to hurry." Lestrade called back as he twisted the key in the ignition and the engine turned over.

"This isn't going to work." Skardon said shakily.

"Won't stop us from trying." Peel responded solidly.

"Who said 'us'? _You're_ going to stay here and secure the area just in case this horrible plan of ours doesn't work." Lestrade said to him just as a van pulled in and their response team spilled out. "Hey, you!" Lestrade called out to them. "Get in!"

The team crawled into the back of the ambulance and Peel closed them in. Skardon ran around to the side of the vehicle. "You're crazy." she said to Lestrade a second time, eyes wide with something resembling both shock and slight admiration.

"No." Lestrade replied as he revved the engine. "Just desperate."

And the ambulance gunned out of the drive.

* * *

There were men in hazmat suits everywhere. John barely noticed them in his barely conscious state. All he could feel for real was the cure to the bioweapon in his left hand, and Sherlock's hand in his right.

"Dr. Watson! Dr. Watson, can you hear me?" Someone called out and John vaguely felt someone shaking his shoulder.

"Mm... Shr'lck..." John slurred.

"He's still alive." The stranger in the hazmat suit told him reassuringly. "Stay with us, Dr. Watson! We're getting you out of here."

He felt himself being lifted onto a stretcher and Sherlock's hand fell limply out of his.

And then John slipped into unconsciousness.

* * *

"Where's the nearest isolated area?" Lestrade asked into the ambulance's radio.

Peel and Skardon were on the other end. "Just keep on that road, there's a left turn coming up." Skardon guided him.

"That's it." Peel encouraged. "Stay on that road. You're alright, mate."

Lestrade tried to ignore the way his hands tightened and relaxed sporadically on the steering wheel and stubbornly refused to look at the time. He didn't want to know how much longer he had.

His phone rang in his jacket pocket. Lestrade growled and plucked it out of his pocket, tossing it onto the shotgun seat. He really didn't need the distraction right now.

* * *

"Sherlock and Dr. Watson are en route to a secure hospital." Anthea informed Mycroft crisply as they hurried out of Heathrow Airport. "The head doctor on scene says Dr. Watson has a high chance of surviving, but he isn't as certain about Sherlock."

Mycroft pressed his lips together. "Gregory isn't answering his phone." he told her worriedly.

Not even a twitch of concern showed on Anthea's face, but Mycroft knew it was there.

* * *

Lestrade pulled the ambulance to a halt in the open stretch of ground Peel and Skardon guided him to and leapt out of the driver's seat. He rounded to the back of the vehicle and opened the back of the ambulance.

It was like watching doctors and nurses at work during an operation by the way they were all crowded around the bioweapon.

"How is it?" Lestrade asked nervously.

"It would be better if you don't interrupt." One of them retorted, his face frozen into an expression of fear and determination. "You should get back and let us do our jobs."

Lestrade nodded silently.

"And would you stop that infernal ringing?" Somebody else complained.

It took Lestrade a moment to realize that the ringing was coming from his phone. He ran back around to the front of the ambulance and scrabbled for his phone.

"Lestrade." he answered quietly, so as not to disturb the technicians, when he saw Mycroft's caller ID.

_"Oh, thank God, Gregory."_ Mycroft heaved.

"How are Sherlock and John?" Lestrade asked.

_"They are with the doctors now."_ Mycroft told him. _"Where are you?"_

"Um..." Lestrade glanced back into the back of the ambulance. "I think you'd be better off not knowing."

_"Gregory."_ One word from Mycroft...

"I'm standing right beside the bioweapon." Lestrade told him. "I - um - got kicked out by the specialists. They're trying to disarm the weapon."

There was a sharp inhale from the other end. _"How much-...?"_

"Longer?" Lestrade finished for Mycroft. "I don't know..." He peeked into the back of the ambulance. "The timer says about one minute and twenty-three seconds." he said unsteadily as he leaned against the side of the ambulance and stared up at the sky.

It was cloudy, but not raining yet. It was somehow... anti-climatic.

_"I just heard about what you did from Agent Peel."_ Mycroft said._ "That was... that was very brave of you."_

"Kindest word for stupidity." Lestrade reminded with a forced light-heartedness.

_"And you are the stupidest man I know."_ Mycroft said with a fond chuckle.

Lestrade returned it slightly hysterically. "How was your flight, then?"

_"Horrible."_ Mycroft replied. _"I spent the whole time stressing over what kind of trouble you and Sherlock would get into this time."_

Lestrade smiled. "Knowing us, you should worry."

_"I do, ...constantly."_ Mycroft said after a moment's pause and Lestrade let out a weak chuckle.

The copper licked his lips and cleared his throat uneasily. "Mycroft, I'm scared." he admitted.

_"Me too."_ Mycroft told him.

Lestrade pressed his eyes shut and mentally counted down the seconds.

He got to around fifteen seconds left, there was only silence from inside the ambulance. Lestrade held his breath. By the way Mycroft wasn't speaking, he was too.

"We did it." A small voice inside the ambulance breathed incredulously. "_Oh, my God._ We actually did it!"

There was a collective sigh of relief inside the ambulance and a clatter of dropped tools. Someone began sobbing. "We did it!" Someone exclaimed, louder.

Lestrade craned his neck and saw the timer frozen and let out an elated laugh. "Did you hear that, Mycroft?" he asked.

_"Loud and clear."_ Mycroft's voice cracked slightly and he cleared his throat. _"I heard it, Gregory."_

Lestrade's knees buckled and he hastily sat on the ground, shaking.

"Holy shit." he giggled hysterically, rubbing his free hand over his face. "_Christ._"

_"Gregory."_ He had almost forgotten Mycroft was on the line. _"Come back. Immediately."_

Lestrade leaned against the ambulance and stared up at the sky. It was beginning to sprinkle. "Yeah, My. I'll be right there." And he hung up.

Then, an odd thought occurred to him.

_Did I just call Mycroft 'My'?_


	95. Protective

Protective

Lestrade stumbled out of the ambulance when they arrived at one of Mycroft's obscure facilities. The bioweapon was whisked away by men in hazmat suits to be locked up nice and tight, or whatever happened to most biohazardic threats.

Lestrade was ushered into a different part of the building, stripped down, cleansed, and tested for potential infection.

When he emerged from the testing area, he was given a set of sweats and delivered to Detective Skardon and Agent Peel to give them his statement on the case.

By the time he was finished, he was dozing on his bare feet. Unfortunately, Mycroft's agents were not able to get a pair of shoes in such short notice. Not like Lestrade cared much in his exhausted state.

Though, he was definitely awake enough to notice Mycroft's arrival.

"Agent Peel." Mycroft greeted. "Exemplary work today."

"We're just finishing up here." Peel smiled back at his superior.

Lestrade rubbed his eye. "Hey, Mycroft."

"Gregory. You look awful." Mycroft chuckled.

"I feel like a test subject that just got ran over by a truck." Lestrade groaned as he padded along on the linoleum floor with his bare feet, hair sticking up every which way from his shower, almost falling asleep.

It was adorable.

"Let's get you to bed." Mycroft smiled fondly.

"Mm." Lestrade grunted. "How are John and Sherlock doing?"

"John will make a full recovery." Mycroft told him. "Sherlock was touch and go for a while, but I'm afraid he'll live."

"That's good to hear." Lestrade mumbled, yawning.

Mycroft gently guided him into his car. "Yes, that is good. Now go to sleep."

Lestrade mumbled something intelligible and slumped bonelessly against Mycroft. Out like a light.

Mycroft smiled and brushed aside one particularly stray bang.

"You foolish, foolish man." He snorted. "You work too hard sometimes."

Then he settled back for a quiet ride.

* * *

Sherlock stirred and slowly blinked his eyes open to find himself staring at a dismal white ceiling. He vaguely remembered the ceiling in Dr. Kusch's office to be a faded yellow.

He inhaled. The air smelled of antiseptics and stale, conditioned air. Which could only mean...

"You're at the hospital." Said the voice of an angel.

Sherlock turned his heavy head with much difficulty and saw John laying in the hospital bed next to his. "...John?"

"Well, I think it's a hospital." John continued. "But it might not be, you never know with Mycroft."

"So, I take it you found the antidote?" Sherlock asked him at length.

John huffed out a laugh. "Quite chuffed about it myself, to tell you the truth." he said. "It was in the biscuit tin."

Sherlock thought about that for a moment or two. "I don't get it, why the Hell would it be in the biscuit tin?"

John snorted. "Should've known you wouldn't understand us normal people." he joked.

"...Lestrade?" Sherlock asked next.

"Successfully stopped the attack on the hospital... not this one, mind. The bioweapon didn't go off. Lestrade is with Mycroft now, resting." John smiled. "By the day I hear he's had, he deserves it."

There was a long, thoughtful silence. "I almost lost you, you know." John said, breaking it.

"I know." Sherlock replied quietly. "But I'm here."

He slid his hand slowly out from under his covers and John mirrored him, gently entwining their fingers between the two hospital beds.

"Here." John echoed quietly.

They lay in silence for a while, John in relief, and Sherlock deep in thought. Finally, Sherlock cleared his throat. "John?"

John opened his eyes. "What, Sherlock?"

Sherlock stared at the ceiling. "I think we should get married."

John snorted. Silence. The ex-army doctor struggled vaguely upright, leaning on his elbow to have a better look at his boyfriend. "God, you're serious."

Sherlock returned his gaze steadily. "Absolutely."

John thought about it for a second or two. "Okay."

"That's it?" Sherlock queried. "No, 'I'll think about it'? Just 'okay'?"

"What?" John snorted. "You want to do it now? I think there's a chapel in the hospital, we can just do it now and get it over with."

Sherlock chuckled. "Maybe later. But only because Mycroft would never let us live it down if both of us wore gowns to the wedding."

John looked down at his and Sherlock's hospital gowns and burst out laughing. "God, you're right. Let's think this through later, though, okay?"

"Go to sleep, John." Sherlock said soothingly.

"You too, you idiot." John returned wryly.

* * *

"The U.S Ambassador has safely returned to the United States." Mycroft said to his companion in the privacy of an unmarked car in an isolated underground parking lot. Much like where it all started. "Your plan failed... Detective Skardon."

Skardon sat silently beside Mycroft, arms and legs crossed, expression calm. The face of a woman who has made peace with her impending doom.

"It seems so." she replied simply.

Mycroft pressed his lips together slightly. She was an intelligent, tough woman. She would've made a wonderful agent. Pity, really.

"When was it?" He asked her. "When you decided to work with Professor Klaus and Dr. Kusch, instead of against them?"

"'Work with them'?" Skardon scoffed. "I had no intention of working with them, Mister Holmes. I only wished to use them."

Oh yes, she would've made a fine agent, indeed.

"CTC has always suspected Dr. Kusch of planning acts of terror, even before Professor Klaus entered the picture. You know, it wasn't even my idea to introduce Professor Klaus to Dr. Kusch. That was me simply following orders from the higher ups in CTC. And then I thought; why use Professor Klaus to gain Dr. Kusch's trust and get information on his plans? Why not just use the both of them for my own reasons?" Skardon uncrossed her arms. "Do you have a smoke?"

Mycroft offered her a pack.

Skardon lit up and sucked in a lungful of nicotine. "I told Professor Klaus that he was free to conduct whatever biohazardous experiments he wanted to, he'd have the funding. And I told Dr. Kusch that he had only to humor the professor until he perfected the weaponized chemicals. And then we would get rid of him." She exhaled and powered down her window a few inches to let the smoke out. "I knew Dr. Kusch would kill himself if he were ever in danger of getting caught. He was my partner in crime and my lover. He would never let himself incriminate me. He fell in love with me in a way that I've never fallen in love with him."

She reached into her breast pocket and pulled out a phone, handing it to Mycroft. "One day, Professor Klaus stumbled on proof that I was working with Dr. Kusch and he knew that we were going to kill him so he tried to get in touch with MI5 to turn me in. We had to speed things up a bit." She paused to suck on her cigarette. "My only regret is not that I failed, Mister Holmes. But that I got as far as I did." She smiled bitterly, blood red lipstick smudging on the butt of her cigarette. "I'm a copper. And the thing I hate more than anything, is bad policing."

"Is that what this was all about?" Mycroft asked. "A wake up call? To tell us how easy it was to fool us? How easy it would be to start a war?"

"Hardly." Skardon snapped. "I was just bored."

"And why are you telling me all this?" Mycroft asked. "I would've thought a woman like you would try to bargain with me. To set a price on your information."

"I just thought it would be nice for someone to know, just in case..." Skardon shrugged, looking wistful. She glanced at Mycroft. "Are you going to kill me?"

Mycroft shook his head. "I killed you five minutes ago." Then, he got out of the car and walked away to his waiting vehicle.

Skardon looked at the smoldering cigarette wedged between her fingers and let out a bitter laugh. Then, she bit down on the cigarette determinedly, crawled into the front seat, and ducked under the car's dashboard.

Mycroft didn't react when he heard Skardon's car start. And neither did he react when she gunned her engine and stepped on the gas pedal, driving headfirst into a wall with such a force that left no imagination to the fate of the sole occupant.

Mycroft sighed and glanced at the man in the driver's seat.

"She died as she lived." Sherrinford muttered, watching the car explode in the distance.

"On her own terms." Mycroft agreed.

"I find that women like that are irresistible... and scary."

"If she had not turned traitor, I would've liked her to work as one of my agents." Mycroft sighed. "Decent minions are so hard to find these days." He looked at his older brother. "On another note; did you really have to accompany me on this little errand?"

Sherrinford shrugged. "While it's true that we Holmeses don't grow fond of people often, when we do..." The elder Holmes clenched his jaw determinedly. "We look after our own, Mycroft. She was nearly responsible for the deaths of Sherlock, John, and Lestrade in one fell swoop. Some people these days... they need to know that they can't mess with us like that without expecting to face severe consequences."

Mycroft snorted. "You sound like Father."

"I was groomed to succeed him, as the firstborn, Mycroft." Sherrinford smirked. "I have much the same qualifications as you do. Even though I haven't used them in a while, it's like riding a bicycle."

Mycroft sighed and sank into his seat. "Let's go, Sherrinford."

"Home?" Sherrinford asked him.

Mycroft nodded, staring out of the window. "Home."

* * *

Lestrade woke up to the afternoon sunlight warming filtering through the window shades and warming his skin. He stirred and rolled over before he realized, from the unnatural dip and softness of the mattress beneath him, that he was not in his own bed.

He opened his eyes and saw Mycroft asleep in a stuffed armchair by the bed.

The government agent's brow was furrowed and his hands were clenched, one on the armrest, the other supporting his head. If Lestrade strained his ears, he could hear Mycroft grinding his teeth. Lestrade knew that Mycroft had a difficult job with many dangers and horrible consequences to bad decisions and he knew those mistakes weighed heavily on Mycroft.

Lestrade was just a copper and he couldn't help with what kind of troubles Mycroft struggled with daily, but he could help with the nightmares.

He swung his legs off the bed and tiptoed to Mycroft. He brushed aside Mycroft's disheveled bangs and planted a gentle kiss on the man's forehead right where the tension gathered between his eyes.

Mycroft stirred at the contact and opened his eyes. "Gregory." he murmured.

"You were having a nightmare." Lestrade told him.

Mycroft blinked and looked contrite. "I didn't disturb your sleep, did I?" Lestrade tilted his head and made a noncommittal noise. "Ah, I'm sorry." Mycroft sighed.

"Don't be. You and I have dangerous jobs that sometimes puts us and people close to us in danger, and that worries you, I get it." Lestrade said kindly. "It's not the first time you've had a nightmare."

Mycroft looked slightly ashamed about that. "Ah." was all he said.

Lestrade smiled and shook his head. "And every morning after a nightmare, you'd sleep in for a few precious seconds longer and I'd watch the sunlight turn your skin into white gold and I'll kiss you awake to remind you that _these_ are the dreams we should be having." He flicked Mycroft's wayward bang. "It's nothing to be embarrassed of. Nightmares are just that, My. _Nightmares._ They can't hurt you, and better yet, they can't hurt _us_. There's nothing shaming in having them."

Mycroft blushed slightly. "'My'?" he questioned.

"Erm..." Lestrade coughed self-consciously. "Should I not?"

Mycroft shook his head. "I don't mind."

Lestrade smiled. "Good."

"Just, not in front of Sherlock or Sherrinford."

Lestrade laughed.

"Come to bed, My."

* * *

Beatrice Lestrade was in the soothing process of washing dinner dishes when the call came. She calmly dried her hands and picked up the phone.

"Is it done?" was all she asked evenly.

_"Yes."_ Mycroft replied. _"I am grateful for your assistance in picking out Detective Skardon as a traitor."_

"My specialty in the Secret Service was in counter-espionage." Beatrice smiled. "Glad to know I've still got it."

_"Still, I am in your debt."_

Beatrice scoffed. "Gregory is my son, Mister Holmes." The former spymaster said to Mycroft. "I wouldn't forgive anyone who would harm him. Not even if it was you." she told him.

Mycroft understood the veiled threat.

_"I wouldn't have it any other way, Mrs. Lestrade."_

Both former and current spymasters smiled in mutual understanding and hung up simultaneously.


	96. Relaxed

Relaxed

Lestrade stirred and rolled over in bed, burrowing deeper under the covers with a soft snuffle. Mycroft let out a low chuckle at the man pressed up against his side.

He looked like a very relaxed cat.

Lestrade, having heard the quiet amusement, poked his head out of his covers and blearily opened his eyes.

"... My?" he yawned, rubbing his eyes. "Wha's goin' on?"

"Nothing." Mycroft said. "Good morning."

"Ugh, morning..." Lestrade groaned in despair, lazily shaking his fist at the sunlight slipping through the window. "Damn you."

Mycroft patted his head. "There's no work today." he informed the lackadaisical copper.

"Oh, thank God." Lestrade sighed in relief. "... Wait, why?" he asked in confusion.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Because you're a workaholic that needs a break." he joked affectionately. "And nobody wants to see you back in your office the day after you could've died saving a hospital and the entire area around it from a viral breakout. You're making the others look bad."

"They just want an excuse to slack off." Lestrade grunted.

"Please." Mycroft sighed. "Humor them, ...and me. Take some time off." He dropped a kiss on the top of Lestrade's head. "Go take a shower, I'll ask Merrim to put on some coffee."

Lestrade let out a whiny noise and wrapped his arms around Mycroft's midriff stubbornly, keeping the man in place. "Don' wanna get up." he complained.

Mycroft laughed. "That's the spirit."

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Mycroft was sitting in a plush armchair in the sitting room with Merrim setting out tea, coffee, eggs with bacon, and toast, when Lestrade sidled in quietly with an embarrassed look on his face.

He was wearing one of Mycroft's silk, navy coloured bathrobes. It looked rather fetching on him. The dark blue contrasted nicely with his silvery hair. Mycroft almost didn't want to wonder why he was wearing the robe and just accept that he was.

Instead, he raised his eyebrow at Lestrade inquisitively.

"I - uh - don't have anything other than work suits here." Lestrade said sheepishly.

_Oh._

Merrim coughed unintrusively. "I will call the Young Miss. In the meantime, please, have a seat."

Lestrade nodded absently. He could only assume that the 'Young Miss' referred to Anthea. He sat down as Merrim served him breakfast with coffee mixed with milk, sugar, and a dash of cocoa.

More of a comfort drink now, than a mugful of energy that Lestrade considered the MET's coffee, drunk black as tar.

He took and sip and his eyes widened, eyebrows raised. He scowled at Merrim without malice. "You've ruined me for all other coffees." He murmured mournfully.

Merrim just nodded slightly with a slight twinkle in his eye despite his smile-less face. "My pleasure." And he drifted off, silent as a ghost. Sometimes, Lestrade thought he must be part of the house itself rather than a separate being.

"So..." Mycroft prompted when they were alone. "Only work suits? You seriously couldn't find anything else to wear?"

Lestrade shook his head, swallowing a bite of egg. "If I did, I wouldn't be wearing your bathwear, My."

Mycroft stared at him in thoughtful silence for a moment. "Does that mean you're not wearing anything under it?" Lestrade choked on his food.

He lowered his silverware onto his plate with a clatter. At first he reddened and looked embarrassed, then annoyed at Mycroft, then a slow, feral smirk grew on his face. "You want to check?" he teased, eyebrow arched challengingly.

Mycroft opened his mouth to reply when the doorbell rang. Both Mycroft and Lestrade looked toward the hall leading to the front door. Mycroft sighed and leveled a stern look at Lestrade.

"We're not done here." He stated before getting up.

Merrim was already in the foyer opening the door when Mycroft arrived. Anthea walked in with no less than seven large bags hanging off her thin arms.

The valet gallantly swooped in and took a considerable amount of the burden off her. "Welcome, Miss Anthea." he greeted in his usual monotone.

"Merrim." Anthea greeted back.

Mycroft took the remaining bags from her. "Looks like you've got a great deal of shopping." he remarked.

"It's on your tab." Anthea smiled back.

"Rather fast, wasn't it?" Mycroft raised his eyebrow.

"I've been dying to dress him up." She smiled, nodding her head in the direction of the sitting room where Lestrade was waiting for them.

"He's not a doll, Anthea." Mycroft sighed reprimandingly.

"Who's not a doll?" Lestrade asked, poking his head out into the hall. "Holy shit, did you buy up a whole store, Anthea?" he gawked when he saw the shopping bags.

"No." Anthea shrugged. "Half would be a better estimate."

Lestrade rolled his eyes.

The PA and the copper drifted out of the sitting room and into Mycroft's bedroom with the shopping and Mycroft returned to his breakfast. He could hear the two talking through the absently open doors they left behind.

"Anthea, this jacket costs more than my weekly paycheck."

"Stop complaining."

"These jeans are too tight."

"They're perfect. Better from the back."

"Wai-...! Oh, great. I feel like a mannequin on display now, thanks. Should I just stay still and let you walk all around me? I could just turn, you know."

"Try this one. I think this colour suits you."

"I think it makes me look like a twat. I like that one better. ...What does this even mean 'dressing to the right'?"

"Erm..." There were a few hushed whispers.

"What the bloody Hell? Why do they need to know that!"

Anthea coughed pointedly.

"Okay, I'll stop asking about it and assume that it's just something rich people do."

"Sure, as long as it gets me out of explaining."

"Why do I even need a suit? It's a bloody day off!"

"Days."

"Huh?"

"_Days_ off."

Lestrade sighed heavily. "Okay, but why would I need a suit? What wrong with mine?"

Anthea snorted softly.

"You laughed at me just now, didn't you?" Lestrade accused irately.

"Of course not. Just go along with it."

"Seriously, what's wrong with my suits?"

"Pinstripes. That's what you need, proper pinstripes."

"Anthea!"

Anthea hastily strode out of Mycroft's bedroom with Lestrade following, now in a charcoal grey turtleneck and jeans.

"Seriously, Anthea!" The copper seemed slightly affronted, but he smiled when Anthea wasn't looking. "Mycroft, you don't think there's anything wrong with my suits, do you?" Lestrade asked, suddenly looking at Mycroft.

"They are very well suited for your work." Mycroft replied neutrally.

"That could mean..._ so_ many things. Thanks, My." Lestrade jutted his bottom lip out just so.

Anthea froze and spun on her heel. "Did you just call him 'My'?"

"Um..."

Awkward moment.

Anthea quickly looked down at her Blackberry. "Nevermind. Must've been my imagination." And she walked out.

If Mycroft or Lestrade noticed her smile growing with the speed she made her way to the door, they didn't say anything.

* * *

Lestrade sat curled up in one of the stuffed armchairs in Mycroft's large library. Mycroft was seated on a sofa close by, doing paperwork.

Lestrade sighed heavily and snapped his book shut. Mycroft looked at him. "The Princess Bride?" the government agent asked, peering at the title.

"Childhood favorite." Lestrade smiled.

"Should I ask why you seem reluctant to read said childhood favorite?" Mycroft asked next.

"I don't know." Lestrade shrugged. "I'm bored. I've been in this room reading for the last three hours." The copper's posture screamed 'pent up energy'. "How do you do it?" Lestrade asked Mycroft.

"You spend a lot of your time in your office writing reports." Mycroft pointed out.

"That's different." Lestrade waved him off.

"How so?"

"It just is." Lestrade shrugged and dropped his head back on the headrest despondently.

They lapsed into silence again.

"That's what it is!" Lestrade exclaimed suddenly, causing Mycroft to startle. "I must be waiting for the other shoe to drop!" he said decisively.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "Oh?"

"I'm waiting for a call from the Yard to come see a body, or a text from Sherlock on a case, or-... well, I'm waiting for _something_ to happen!" Lestrade raked his fingers through his hair. "Peace and quiet never lasts very long, does it?"

"The whole point of a vacation is to relax." Mycroft said to him with a chuckle.

Lestrade let out a slightly strangled noise. "Mycroft, I haven't been able to relax since I _met_ you Holmeses!" He jabbed a finger at Mycroft. "Watch. Something's bound to happen."

"Murphy's Law." Mycroft grumbled with a slight smile.

"Damn right." Lestrade crossed his arms with a stoic look.

"Well, let me know if something happens." Mycroft shook his head, returning to his paperwork.

Five minutes later, Lestrade uncrossed his arms and let out a sigh. "What's that about then?" He asked, peering at Mycroft's paperwork.

"If I told you, I'd have to kill you." Mycroft said as expected.

"Well you won't have to _tell_ me." Lestrade grinned impishly. "I mean, if you leaned down a little and turned just a bit to the left-..." Mycroft rolled his eyes with a small smile at Lestrade's antics.

"Gregory, as much as I love you, you're disturbing my work."

Lestrade pouted. "Fine, fine. I'll drop in on Sherlock and John at the hos-..."

"No." Mycroft declared firmly. "Not there."

"What? Why?" Lestrade asked, confused.

"Murphy's Law." Mycroft reminded. "You're on vacation. You are not to get involved in anything that would lead to a case."

Lestrade's shoulders sagged just a little. "There's nothing worth watching on the telly."

"Surely you can find something safe and stress-free to do?" Mycroft sighed, seemingly giving up on his work.

Lestrade's eyes rolled upwards as he thought. "Um... nope." he replied cheerfully. At Mycroft's steadily exasperated look. "Oh, come on! It's not my fault! It's not like I actively _try_ to get into trouble!"

"Sometimes, I wonder about you." Mycroft remarked sarcastically.

Lestrade blinked. "Well, I guess you're right about that." He practically poured himself out of his seat with the smooth movement of honey and walked over to Mycroft, smirking. When he reached him, Lestrade ran a finger down Mycroft's smooth-shaven cheek. "_You're_ trouble. With a capital 'T', Mister Holmes - Mycroft Holmes." He purred from under thick eyelashes. Then, he turned and sauntered off.

Anthea was right. Those jeans were _glorious_.

Safe? Stress-free? It seemed Lestrade didn't know the meaning of those words. Either that, or didn't care.

Mycroft shook his head with a smile and followed him.


	97. Stubborn

Stubborn

"Gregory." Mycroft sighed.

Lestrade glanced up from where he was lacing up his sneakers. "Yes, My?" he asked innocently.

"Where are you going?"

Lestrade straightened and shrugged. "Out on a jog, what does it look like?"

Indeed, the jogging part was very clear if the sneakers, sweatshirt, and mildly alarming jogging spandex were any indication. ... Alright, the spandex might have been a little more than alarming.

The damn thing left practically nothing to imagination.

Lestrade seemed to sense his thoughts and looked down. "Anthea got them for me. I think she might've snuck into my flat and burned my sweatpants with fire."

"They are rather..." Mycroft searched fruitlessly for words.

Lestrade shrugged. "As long as they're wearable, I'm not bothered."

"_I_ am." Mycroft shot back.

Lestrade snorted. "Well, if you're so concerned, you can come with." he suggested.

Mycroft looked appalled. "Ugh, legwork."

"Extreme stuff." Lestrade nodded sagely. "Well, if you're not coming..." He turned and walked out of the room.

Oh Lord... first the jeans, now the spandex. Anthea was deliberately trying to give him heart attacks. Either that or trying to get him to exercise. Or both, because Mycroft was pretty sure that heart attacks counted as extreme exercise.

Mycroft groaned in defeat and dragged himself to his wardrobe.

"Gregory Lestrade." Mycroft mused aloud to himself thoughtfully. "Virtue; highly threatened when not copper." But, well, that would imply that he wasn't in danger as a DI. And that wasn't quite true either if the looks from various colleagues and witnesses, sometimes even criminals, were any indication.

Mycroft resisted the urge to pound his head on the wall and instead shoved his feet awkwardly into sneakers.

He picked up his phone. "Anthea, level up the security measures on Gregory immediately."

There was a sly smirk in Anthea's voice. _"Of course, Sir."_

"And, I really hate you." Mycroft huffed.

_"You'll thank me when he starts running."_ Anthea chuckled.

"Always with the pants." Mycroft groaned.

_"Face it, you have a thing for his butt. I can tell."_

"I do not!" Mycroft squawked, flushing and hung up.

The smug 'Sure you don't, Sir' hung in the air.

Mycroft groaned and trotted to the foyer. Lestrade was in the middle of his warm up stretches. It was fairly difficult to watch when he knew he'd have to run right after.

"Changed your mind, then?" Lestrade grinned.

"Only to protect your virtue." Mycroft grumbled under his breath irately and stalked out, torn between cursing Anthea and the world in general, or singing Hosannas in the street for those spandex.

"My _what?_" Lestrade spluttered, absolutely bewildered, trailing after him.

And, to clear things up... Mycroft really didn't have a thing for DI Lestrade's butt.

Really.

And if Mycroft joined Lestrade in the shower after they returned, it was only to save water.

Naturally.

Anthea, that damn sadistic woman.

* * *

"No." Dimmock snapped later on that day. "Lestrade, no. Absolutely not!" He really didn't like speaking to anybody so harshly, but he knew that Lestrade's begging to come into work would only stop if it was nipped in the bud.

_"Dimmock..."_ Lestrade groaned in despair. _"I'm at my wit's end! I'm driving myself crazy over here!"_

"I don't care if you're bored!" Dimmock called back. "That's not my problem! Watch a movie, or something."

_"I did."_ Lestrade whined. _"The whole Lord of the Rings trilogy. They were the extended versions, too!"_

"Lestrade, even Donovan hasn't mentioned wanting to come back in after that whole... case." Dimmock told him. "She's catching up on some rest, going on a date, having a drink, or two. And you should follow her example."

_"But Dimm-...!"_

Dimmock hung up. The bastard.

* * *

By dinnertime, Lestrade was lying limply on Mycroft's sofa, absently flipping through TV channels but not finding anything to watch.

John snorted and Lestrade looked up. "Oh, hey. What are you doing here, John?" Lestrade smiled, sitting up. "Aren't you supposed to be in the hospital, or something?"

"Just got out today." John grinned back. "Mycroft said you were depressed."

"Oh God, don't get me started." Lestrade rolled his eyes.

"Anyway, I'm here to rescue you." John laughed. "Come on, get up, Greg. We're going down to the pub."

"Seriously?" Lestrade groaned. "I can't believe Mycroft called you in to babysit me!"

"He mentioned his concern about you running away to stop crime." John said dryly. "And if I were Sherlock, I'd encourage it. But I'm not, so tough."

Lestrade got up and grabbed his jacket. "Where's Mycroft?" he asked curiously.

"Work." John replied with a shrug.

Lestrade facepalmed self-deprecatingly. "I've been Hell on him. I feel bad about it now."

"You mean, you weren't feeling bad about it before?" John scoffed.

"Nope." Lestrade grinned sheepishly.

John laughed.

* * *

"I mean, seriously!" Lestrade slurred slightly as he and John lurched homeward, fairly drunk. "I can't go to work, can't visit Baker Street, can't even go to a pub with Anthea, what does Mycroft expect me to do cooped up in his house?"

"Wait, he won't let you go to a pub with Anthea, but he'll let you go with me?" John giggled delightedly.

"Anthea and I got kicked out once. Pub brawl. It really wasn't either of our faults." Lestrade assured him. "Erm... I think, at least. It's all a bit of a blur."

John bellowed out a laugh. "You, Greg, are one crazy bastard."

"I could say the same about you!" Lestrade grinned back. "I thought you were crazy enough to room with Sherlock, but then you had to go and date him!"

"I still think he's more tolerable than Mycroft." John said. "No offense, but his cars and cameras still creep me out."

"None taken." Lestrade snickered back. "And you shouldn't get used to them like I have. You should have a fighting chance of turning out normal."

"Normal?" John exclaimed. "Us?"

They exchanged grinning glances and burst out laughing as if it was the most hilarious thing in the world.

"Ah, you're right about that." Lestrade hiccuped, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye as he calmed down.

"Damn right, and I wouldn't have it any other way!" John declared proudly. "Well, I guess I could do without the persecution of walls and body parts showing up in the fridge." he amended.

"Yeah, Mycroft's omniscience is pretty annoying too. It like 'If you knew that, why didn't you tell me before!'." Lestrade groaned.

"I know!" John pitched in enthusiastically. "And that thing they do when they know you know, but they make it very clear that they're not going to tell."

"Bastards." Lestrade agreed full heartedly.

"I've been wondering, does Mycroft do any of those coat trick thingies that Sherlock does?" John asked him inquisitively.

"No, no coat tricks." Lestrade shook his head. "But you only have to look at his umbrella to see what kind of mood he's in."

"Oh?" John's eyebrows raised. "Doesn't just always just hook it over his arm, or something?"

"That's when he's neutral." Lestrade told him. "Hooked over his left arm is neutral, over his right is bored. Holding it with his right hand is either 'angered' 'menacing' or 'on the offensive', and in his left is 'uncomfortable'. Holding it with both hands in front of him means 'condescension' and behind is 'crap, I made a mistake'. And when he fidgets with his umbrella it means he's nervous or thinking very hard."

John just stared at his friend for a moment or two. "Should I be worried about how much you know about his umbrella acrobatics?"

Lestrade shook his head, looking embarrassed. "Shut up, cool-coat-tricks."

John smiled at his red-faced friend. "Should I tell you the secret behind them?"

"Nope." Lestrade responded flatly.

"Oh, good." John laughed. "I wasn't actually going to."

Lestrade made a show of sighing in relief and John punched him in the shoulder.

"Seriously though, they're just so stubborn." Lestrade sighed. "When those Holmeses get an idea in their gigantic brains, they won't budge, will they?"

"No they won't." John sighed. "Sorry to hear about your veiled house arrest situation."

"I'm going stir crazy." Lestrade groaned in despair.

"Better than getting into trouble." John shrugged. "You should try to enjoy your vacation as much as you can before something outrageous happens again."

"I still think Mycroft's overreacting with this whole 'Murphy's Law, Gregory. I must promptly roll you up in bubble wrap. You cannot fight me on this one'." Lestrade mimicked Mycroft's tone and John burst out laughing.

"He's just worried about you." John tried to reason.

"He's paranoid." Lestrade corrected. "I mean, it's not like I get into trouble every time I step out of the hou-..."

Just then, a van screeched to a halt on the street beside them and two men grabbed Lestrade, throwing him into the back of the vehicle before roaring off.

_Thanks, God._ Lestrade thought in exasperation, starring stunned at the ceiling of the vehicle. _Your timing is impeccable._

John just stood on the pavement, gaping in shock.

"Oh, shit. What do I tell Mycroft?"


	98. Separate

Separate

While John was left panicking on the pavement, Lestrade was scowling, arms crossed, wearing the expression of the extremely unimpressed.

"Oh don't look at me like that, Sir." Donovan chirped from the driver's seat.

"Of all the moments to kidnap me, Sergeant, you had to snag the very moment I was telling John that I wouldn't get into trouble." Lestrade scowled. "And who are these people?" He motioned to the two men who had grabbed him.

"That's Bobby, he's from dispatch." Donovan pointed to the taller brunette.

"He and she have a thing." Dimmock chimed in from the shotgun seat petulantly. "A _Thing_, Lestrade!" he emphasized like a worried mother hen.

"Thank you, Dimmock." Donovan rolled her eyes over Bobby's bashful grin. "And that's Stan... Stanley Hopkins." she introduced the shorter, blonde haired man.

"Hey, I remember you..." Lestrade trailed off as he fought to recall where he had seen the man's face. "Oh, right! I threw up on your boots, I remember now. Sorry about that, mate."

Hopkins shrugged with a grimace. "Occupational hazard."

"So... what's the occasion?" Lestrade asked. "I'd like to think you all have a reason for kidnapping me."

"No, we like to do it just for fun." Donovan replied swiftly.

"We're practicing for when we _really_ need to get rid of you." Dimmock chimed in, deadpanned.

"And these are people I've been working closely with for years." Lestrade said mournfully to an amused Bobby and Hopkins.

"Anyway," Donovan waved over their snickers. "we heard about your hostage situation with Mister Holmes and we decided to switch roles."

"So you're kidnapping me?" Lestrade asked with a smile.

"Sure we are." Dimmock grinned. "Serves the bugger right."

Lestrade just sat back and crossed his arms, shaking his head with a smile. "This is going to end in tears. I'm going to call Mycroft before he really does think I'm kidnapped."

"Do you have to?" Dimmock whined.

"Someone has to keep you idiots alive." Lestrade chuckled back and pulled out his phone. He called Mycroft.

_"Gregory?"_ Mycroft picked up milliseconds after Lestrade called.

"Hey, Mycroft."

_"John has informed me that you have been kidnapped."_ Mycroft said evenly. Lestrade heard something sounding like a warning alarm going off in the back ground.

"Um, I'm fine actually." Lestrade told him. "Is that an alarm?"

The noise stopped. _"No Gregory, it is not."_

"You have an alarm that goes off every time I get kidnapped?" Lestrade snickered through his incredulousness.

_"No."_ Mycroft said flatly. _"Where are you?"_

"I'm in the van, still." Lestrade informed him. "Looks like Donovan and a few other coppers decided to kidnap me for one reason or another."

_"Oh... I see."_ Mycroft sighed. _"Please give the phone to Sergeant Donovan."_

Lestrade blinked and handed his phone to Donovan.

Donovan took it and listened in silence save for the few stiff 'uh-huh's and 'okay's. Then, she handed the phone back to Lestrade. "We're not to let you out of our sights, and we're to avoid trouble like the plague." she told Lestrade. "Also, he's sending a team to keep an eye on us."

"To keep an eye on us?" Dimmock squeaked, staring at Lestrade with a 'what have you done now?' look. Lestrade just shrugged.

"He said something about 'having our hides' if we got into trouble or got you kidnapped for real." Donovan shrugged. "Sounded more like he wanted our 'livers with a side of fava beans and a nice Chianti'. Also, I warn you that he's never letting you out of the house again without him personally accompanying you, I think."

"This is getting ridiculous, I'm going back to my own flat until he calms down." Lestrade decided firmly.

"Your boyfriend is insane!" Dimmock wailed.

"It's a wonder he even lets you do your job!" Donovan crowed with laughter. "That's what I call overprotective and clingy!" she teased. "That possessive, posh, bugger!"

"Oh, will you two just shut up?" Lestrade groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Where are we going, anyway?"

"To my place." Donovan told him. "It's the biggest. For a full twenty-four hours we're going to forget we're cops and spend it like immature college students. We're going to have a sleepover complete with hairdressing, pillow fights, and icecream. Just don't expect me to let you use my makeup." She tried hard to keep a straight face.

Lestrade rolled his eyes Heavenward, palms turned in the same direction in a gesture of helplessness. "When did my life turn into a crap sitcom?"

Dimmock reached back and patted his shoulder with a mischievous grin. "We can watch the Titanic... or the Time Traveler's Wife."

Lestrade turned morose eyes toward Dimmock, then looked at Donovan. "Do you promise icecream? Cookies 'n cream? And maybe lots-and-lots of alcohol? Because I am nowhere near drunk enough for this."

Donovan laughed back. "Sure, boss."

Bobby and Hopkins just exchanged amused glances and thanked their lucky stars that they had these crazy people as friends, not as everyday coworkers.

* * *

By the next morning, Dimmock had clips in his hair and was dozing on the couch, Hopkins had nail polish on his fingers and toes and lay sprawled on the carpeted sitting room floor, Bobby was passed out in the bathroom, and true to her word, nobody was wearing Donovan's makeup.

Lestrade and Donovan were sitting in a demolished kitchenette over mugs of coffee, making plans to replace all the unfixable furniture.

They had massive hangovers, they felt silly about it all, and cleaning up was going to be Hell, but it was still the most fun Lestrade had had in years.

"You know," Donovan broke the silence. "with all the gory murders we solve, it's nice to just forget it all for a little bit." she remarked.

Lestrade grunted in agreement. "Never have time for vacations. Can't catch a break." he groaned.

"What do you think would happen if we did?" Donovan wondered exaggeratedly. "Catch a break, I mean." she grinned.

"The world would end." Lestrade replied flatly. "And thus, break broken." They exchanged glances and snickered.

Cop humor.

Just then, Lestrade's phone buzzed with a text. He pulled it out of his pocket and marveled that it was still on his person after last night. "Oh, it's Mycroft." he told Donovan.

_Good morning, Gregory. -MH_

_Morning. -Lestrade_

_Just wanted to let you know that I will be out visiting Mummy for family matters and won't be back until at least tomorrow. -MH_

_Okay. Have fun! -Lestrade_

_I trust Anthea and Donovan with your safe-keeping. (Yes, I am aware that you are not a pet.) -MH_

_Are you sure? -Lestrade_

_Quite. Anyway, take something for the hangover. -MH_

_Look after yourself, too. -Lestrade_

_And say 'hi' to your mum, for me! -Lestrade_

_I will. -MH_

Lestrade put his phone down on the kitchen table. "Mycroft's out of town visiting the mum." he told Donovan. "So if you want to do something completely outrageous, now is the time."

"I'll think of something." Donovan smirked. "I'm kind of surprised, though. Hearing that they actually have parents." Lestrade snorted. "What? I always thought they were some science experiment gone rogue."

Lestrade continued chuckling into his coffee mug. "Nah, I'm pretty sure that Mummy Holmes exists."

"Maybe she's a witch." Donovan mused. "Or a vampiress."

"Or a normal person." Lestrade groaned. "Come on, Donovan. They can't all be that weird! ... Right?"

"Just you wait." Donovan smiled sharply. "Your boyfriend will come back and tell you that Mummy had another long lost sibling hidden away."

"Oh, God." Lestrade groaned. "He's gone on 'family matters'." he realized.

Donovan smirked at him. "More of them. Just to make your life Hell. I'm serious."

"Don't try and scare me, Donovan." Lestrade scolded with a smile as he picked his phone up again to text Anthea.

_Mycroft's gone on family business... should I be worried? -Lestrade  
_

Anthea took a few minutes longer than usual to answer._ No. -A_

Short. Clipped. And suspicious. Anthea seemed rather upset about something. Lestrade frowned. _Are you lying? -Lestrade_

_Maybe. -A_

_Why, what's going on? -Lestrade_

_That is not my place to say. -A_

Great, just great.

* * *

A/N: Just a formality for curious people, Stanley Hopkins made a teeny-tiny appearance in the 71th chapter - Avenging. And yes, Lestrade did throw up on his shoes after being blown up, but Hopkins seems to have taken it in stride.


	99. Jealous

Jealous

_Please tell me you don't have any other unannounced siblings. -Lestrade_

_Not that I know of. -SH_

_Why? -SH_

_Mycroft's gone to see Mummy Holmes about some family business. -Lestrade_

_Oh. -SH_

_Oh? -Lestrade_

_I thought he stopped doing that. -SH_

_Doing what? Anthea seemed upset by it. -Lestrade_

Sherlock didn't text back for a long time so Lestrade turned to two of his closest friends.

"I'm not being paranoid, am I?" Lestrade asked.

"I think you're not being paranoid enough." Dimmock replied.

"For once, I agree with Dimmock." Donovan chimed in.

Lestrade's phone buzzed with an incoming call from John. "Hello?"

_"Greg,"_ John greeted. _"I heard about Mycroft's trip from Sherlock."_ he said grimly.

"Well good! Because he's not telling me anything about it!" Lestrade groaned back. "So, what is it? Siblings, World War Three, or World Domination?"

_"None of those, I'm afraid."_ John said cautiously.

"Then what? Sherlock's being a bastard and ignoring me."

_"That's because he was asking me what protocol he should follow in situations like this."_ John told him.

"Wait, what? Protocol? What for?"

There was a fumbling noise on the other end and Sherlock came on.

_"Mummy organizes annual events at Holmes Manor in order to find Mycroft - the Holmes Heir - a suitable wife, and she makes Mycroft go to these events."_ Sherlock told him bluntly.

"What?"

_"I thought he had long stopped going to those silly little parties."_ Sherlock rattled on.

"What?"

_"I mean, especially since he entered a relationship with you..."_

Lestrade promptly stabbed the 'end call' button with great fervor.

"What was that all about?" Donovan asked him curiously, slightly concerned about Lestrade's blank expression.

Lestrade blinked once, and then a second time, standing perfectly still as he tried to comprehend his conversation with Sherlock. Then, he looked up.

"Mycroft went home." he said tonelessly.

"And?" Dimmock asked.

"To find a 'suitable wife' apparently." Lestrade intoned, a sudden spark of rage flickered behind his eyes. "Excuse me while I go commit murder." And he stalked out.

Figures he'd find Anthea waiting for him in a car outside Donovan's flat.

"Holmes Manor?" Anthea asked.

"Holmes Manor." Lestrade grunted back.

* * *

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed as he lunged for his boyfriend, grabbing the phone away from him. "Couldn't you be at least a little more tactful about telling him?" He held his phone to his ear. "Hello? Greg? Hello?" But the phone was dead.

Sherlock scoffed maliciously. "Serves Mycroft right."

John sent him a glare.

"What? He should've told Mummy he was already in a relationship!" Sherlock crossed his arms. "It's his own fault if Lestrade is upset."

"Sherlock..." John sighed.

"If _you_ were the one looking for a suitable wife, I would tell all potential competitors that you have syphilis." Sherlock said flatly.

"I'd really hate you forever if you did that." John retorted.

"So you wouldn't do it, yes?" Sherlock smiled brightly.

"I hate you." John glared.

"It's a stupid endeavor, anyway." Sherlock continued airily. "Seeing as though you've already found yourself a suitable _husband_."

"Hate." John heaved out a sigh. "So much hate, Sherlock."

"Come on, John." Sherlock leapt to his feet and grabbed his coat. "This may either turn out very, very good, or horrifically bad, and I'd hate to miss it, wouldn't you?"

"Hate." John murmured quietly as he followed.

* * *

The event was already in full swing by the time Mycroft arrived at the manor. Women dressed in flashy dresses and too much makeup batted their mascara-laden eyelashes at him in a way that was meant to be seductive but only succeeded in irking him.

He ignored them and strode up the steps to a second floor balcony overlooking the main hall just in time to see his mother chatting up the daughter born of old money and an illustrious Holmes family friend.

"Oh, Mycroft, there you are!" Mummy Holmes smiled, beckoning him.

"Mummy." Mycroft greeted her with a kiss on the cheek.

"You remember Rebecca?" Rebecca was a very pretty girl with apple cheeks and honey-coloured hair.

"Of course I remember." Mycroft smiled politely in greeting. "It's wonderful to see you again."

Rebecca giggled coyly and drifted off like a butterfly after a few short moments of small talk. Mycroft watched her go with a scowl.

"I remember her as a silly little girl who always demanded to be treated like a spoiled princess." he muttered under his breath to his mother. "She has not grown any."

Mummy Holmes rolled her eyes. "What could I do? Ignore her and invite everybody else?"

Mycroft regarded her with a look. "You didn't have to open this event."

"Mycroft, you are almost forty and unmarried." Mummy sniffed. "Forgive me for worrying."

"However, I am currently in a-..." Mycroft was cut off by yet another potential suitor desperately butting in for even a second of Mycroft's attention.

"What was that, dear?" Mummy asked when they escaped the damn harpy.

"I already have a bo-..."

_Crash!_ A group of red-faced girls who could be no older than twenty dissolved into helpless giggles as out of nowhere a maid or two swooped in to clean up the mess they had caused.

Mycroft massaged the bridge of his nose. Dear Lord...

"I agree." Mummy hummed at Mycroft's look, regarding the girls with a gaze one would usually save for a piece of gum stuck onto the bottom of one's shoe. "Too young." she said diplomatically.

"And stupid." Mycroft grunted. "I rather..."

Just at that moment, the doors flew open and a couple sauntered in as if they owned the place. And in a way, by the attention they were getting, they did.

The woman wore a stunning black dress that hugged her curves and a plunging neckline that made lesser men stare, and her companion-...

.._.Dear Lord_, her companion was Lestrade! Mycroft's mouth fell open in shock because - well - ... _Gregory_.

Anthea smiled, arm hooked in Lestrade's as she stared unholy terrors at the she-wolves. "Pinstripes, Lestrade. I told you." she hummed musically. "You look very handsome."

Lestrade just smiled wincingly. "Why are they all staring?"

"Because you're wearing a tailor-made suit with pinstripes." Anthea snickered at Mycroft's gobsmacked expression. "You're welcome."

"They're looking at us like we're food." Lestrade whispered with a growing hysteria, not seeing Mycroft yet.

"Don't worry, I've got a gun."

Lestrade scanned the room until his eyes fell on Mycroft's face.

Mycroft stared back as Lestrade raised an eyebrow with a heated look that dared him to explain himself. Mycroft snapped to attention at the look and felt afraid, _very_ afraid, and just as uncomfortably aroused. "That one." he spluttered helplessly aside to Mummy. "I want that one."

Lestrade, seemingly reading his lips, looked surprised, and then broke out into a smirk.

Mummy scrutinized Anthea. "Very pretty, but she's too young for you, Mycroft." she sighed. Mycroft looked at her, aghast. Because it was _Anthea_ so, no. No, Mummy, just - just, _no_.

"No, I'm pretty sure he's perfect." Mycroft returned smoothly as he pulled away from his mother's side and hurried down the steps to join Lestrade and Anthea in the main hall.

He vaguely heard Mummy wonder 'he?' aloud as she followed her son.

Mycroft approached Lestrade and Anthea and just stared at the two very attractive people with a helpless wonderment. "Gregory, you-..." he blew out a calming breath and smiled. "... you look amazing."

Lestrade just shoved his hands into his pockets and bounced nervously on the balls of his feet. "I feel like a peacock." he admitted with an embarrassed grin. "And I'm - um - here to crash your party." There was a slightly mischievous twinkle in his eye.

Mycroft grinned back. "Then, what are you waiting for?"

Lestrade rolled his eyes and stepped inward, one hand cupping Mycroft's face, the other finding its way onto the small of Mycroft's back, and kissed him in a way that said 'Back off ladies, no really, you might want to start running now'.

Half the crowd looked scandalized, the other half just looked uncomfortable and embarrassed at witnessing something so intimate. Most of the women felt like fools for flirting with a man who already seemed to have a boyfriend.

Three women fainted.

Anthea just smiled in satisfaction.

Lestrade broke the kiss first. "God, I didn't actually come here for this." he breathed lightly. "Think I was going to give you a piece of my mind when I got here."

"I wouldn't blame you." Mycroft returned, pulling away and self-consciously fixing his collar. "I - um - actually I came here to tell Mummy about you, but didn't really had any luck with that so far."

Lestrade turned his palms upward. "Floor's yours, My."

Mycroft turned on his heel to face his stunned mother, grabbing Lestrade's hand and pulling him to stand beside him. "Mummy, this is Gregory Lestrade, my boyfriend." he introduced them. "Gregory, this is-..."

"Temperance Holmes." Mummy cut in warmly, smiling, having gotten over her shock quickly. "Pleasure to meet you, Mister Lestrade, I thought Mycroft would never settle."

They shook hands.

"Sorry about intruding." Lestrade grimaced. "It looked like a lovely party."

"It was _horrible_." Both Holmeses replied quietly so none of the other guests heard them.

Both had identical looks of disdain underlined with long-suffering. The resemblance was remarkable. Lestrade threw his head back and laughed.

"Oh, bollocks!" A familiar voice hissed at the door. "We missed it!"

Everybody turned to see Sherlock and John at the door. Sherlock looked from Lestrade, to Mycroft, and to Mummy. He scowled. "You didn't even shout at each other, did you? You're all boring." he declared.

"Sherlock!" John groaned.

Anthea unintrusively began prodding everybody of no interest out of the door with a look at told them 'party's over'.

Sherrinford suddenly appeared with a glass of champagne in his hand. "By the way, Mum, Sherlock's got a boyfriend too." He grinned. Mycroft startled at his older brother's presence, he didn't even know Sherrinford was here!

"Wrong." Sherlock rebuffed. "I've got a fiance." he announced, chest puffing with pride, Sherrinford promptly broke out into coos and embarrassing squeals because he was all sorts of crazy like that and 'Oh my God! Sherlock's all grown up!'.

Mummy Holmes looked at John and the doctor extended his hand. "Hello, I'm John Watson."

The hand was accepted with grace. "Temperance Holmes." The Holmes mother replied. "Looks like I shouldn't hope for grandchildren, then?"

"Don't worry, Mum!" Sherrinford smiled, throwing an arm around her shoulders and kissing her cheek. "I still like women just _fine!_"

"You like them too _much_." Mycroft rolled his eyes. "It's a wonder you haven't spawned any offspring yet."

"Hey, I like Lestrade too, you know." Sherrinford winked. "I mean, holy Hell! Look at you, gorgeous!" He wolf-whistled at Lestrade, leering.

Lestrade rolled his eyes with an exasperated sigh and crossed his arms. Mycroft instinctively wedged himself shield-like between Lestrade and his older brother.

Mummy swatted her eldest's arm. "Don't antagonize him, Sherrinford. I am your mother and you are never too old to get grounded."

Sherrinford clamped his mouth shut with a zipping motion.

"He stole Rebecca's diamond necklace as she left." Sherlock blurted.

Mummy Holmes narrowed her eyes at Sherrinford. "Grounded."

"Lestrade almost dumped Mycroft because he thought he was being led on." Sherrinford was quick to point fingers.

"Grounded."

"Sherlock almost died last week from a viral attack." Mycroft smirked.

"Grounded."

Anthea, Lestrade, and John just stood back and watched the four Holmeses bicker.

"John?"

"Yeah, Greg?"

"Congratulations."

"Thanks, mate."

"I think you're crazy, by the way."

"Uh-huh, you too."

They all smiled.


	100. Perfect

Perfect

"Oh my God." John groaned. "I can't believe this is actually happening! _Oh my God!_"

Lestrade just sat back and watched Anthea fuss about the man's rumpled collar. "Well, buck up." he said. "You've gone up against worse."

John scowled back. "None of those said 'worse' were Sherlock Holmes."

"And you weren't trying to marry said 'worse', either." Lestrade chimed. "Unless there's something important you want to tell me." he added in afterthought.

John glared and made a rude hand gesture in reply. Lestrade just laughed.

"I can't believe I'm actually getting _married_." John whined, having a mini-panic.

"Yes, it's a horrible idea. I mean, he's a _Holmes_." Lestrade droned jokingly, but then shut up at Anthea's glare.

"I can't believe I'm getting married!" John said again, almost in shock.

"I can't believe _Sherlock's_ getting married." Lestrade and Anthea said in unison. "I mean, it's _Sherlock._" Lestrade marveled.

"John's very, very good." Anthea agreed.

"A saint, almost." Lestrade piped in.

"Saint John." Anthea nodded sagely.

"_'Saint John'_ can actually hear you, you know." John rolled his eyes with an exasperated look. "Greg, you have the ring, yeah?" he asked for the thirtieth time since he gave it to Lestrade.

"No, I lost it in the three minutes since you last asked." Lestrade rolled his eyes sarcastically. John looked horrified and devastated. "John, it'll be fine - in fact - it'll be _perfect_. So relax!"

"I'm going to walk down the aisle with Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes, no I _can't_ relax!" John threw his hands up in surrender. "How did this even happen?"

"You said 'Okay' when Sherlock proposed to you." Lestrade smirked. "And then Sherlock announced that you two were engaged, and Mummy Holmes promptly began planning your wedding in case you changed your mind and ran away."

John looked at him with the most hateful expression.

"Hey, you asked."

* * *

Contrary to the hustle and bustle of John's dressing room, Sherlock and Mycroft moved in liquid silence. Sherlock picked and fussed quietly at the wrinkles on his sleeve as Mycroft expertly tied his bow tie.

Nothing was said for a long time.

"John is a good man." Mycroft said finally.

Sherlock's eyes flashed. "I know that, Mycroft." he hissed testily.

"And you are no less, so." Mycroft continued as if his younger brother had said nothing, he smoothed out Sherlock's bow tie with the utmost care. "Despite anything I say, or have said. There, it's perfect." he hummed as he nodded at Sherlock's overall appearance in satisfaction.

Sherlock's eyes softened. "Really now, Mycroft. Next thing we'll know, you'll be dabbing a handkerchief in your eye during the ceremony." he teased.

"Oh Dear Lord, it will only be because seeing you smile for more than five seconds will cause permanent damage to my eyes." Mycroft shot back.

Both smiled.

"It's almost time, Sherlock." Mycroft announced after a glance at his watch.

Sherlock watched his brother move away to leave the room. "Mycroft." Mycroft paused in the doorway. Sherlock faltered, grimaced, but pulled himself together. "Thank you."

_For everything, and nothing in particular._

Mycroft smiled, a light tinge of pride on his features. "You're welcome."

"And you will not tell anybody I said that." Sherlock demanded.

"Of course not, Sherlock." Mycroft smirked indulgently, now more nemesis than older brother. "It'll be our little secret."

Sherlock didn't believe a word he said. It was Mycroft, he knew not to.

* * *

The marriage ceremony went as smoothly as could be expected when Holmeses were involved.

Donovan had somehow gotten into an argument with one of John's military friends... and she was _winning_. Molly had this dead-zone thing going on around her for about a five meter radius but Stamford kept her company as Dimmock tried to talk to Anthea... she pretended not to remember his face.

Beatrice Lestrade and the rest of the family were also in attendance. It was a startling twist as Lestrade had no idea they were coming. Mummy Holmes had invited them under Beatrice's maiden name, not knowing that Beatrice was married.

And that prompted the revelation that Beatrice Lestrade and Temperance Holmes had been close friends and colleagues once upon a time when they were working with the MI5 in their younger years but had lost contact when Temperance married and Beatrice had been stationed in France where she had met Lestrade's father.

Mycroft and Lestrade didn't have it in themselves to be properly shocked anymore. In fact, they were both wondering why they hadn't made the connection themselves the moment they had known both women were former intelligence agents.

It was_ them_ they were talking about, after all.

John's sister Harry and Lestrade stood on John's side while Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft stood with Sherlock. Anthea and Sherrinford were never in one place for very long, mostly because Anthea was guiding the wedding photographer, Alex - who came with his now-husband Sladsky - to all the best spots, and Sherrinford, the good thief that he was, couldn't resist the lure of all the extravagant jewelery everybody wore. He loved weddings.

John stumbled on his way up the aisle and Sherlock refused to recite the traditional vows which ended in something like 'Till death do us-... wait, that's not very good, is it? Been there, done that, and all.' But it made John crack up, so it was all good.

Halfway through the ceremony, as Mycroft handed Sherlock his ring, he fished a handkerchief out of his pocket and pretended to dab his eye with it with an indulgent look at his younger brother.

_Are you happy now?_

Sherlock just smiled broadly and turned to John as he placed the ring on his finger with a proud look.

_Now I am, brother._

"This is still a bad idea." Lestrade smirked to John as he gave his friend his ring.

John snorted back. "He is still a Holmes."

"Still have time to back out, you know."

John narrowed his eyes at Lestrade. "You just want to have the chance to run down the aisle shouting 'stop the wedding!', don't you?"

"Guilty."

John snorted in amusement, turned and placed the ring on Sherlock's finger... or, well, tried to. It didn't fit.

Sherlock looked embarrassed. "I - um - may have had an accident with an experiment this morning." he confessed

"Is - holy shit - is your finger broken?"

"No."

"It's swollen."

"That's because it's sprained."

"And you didn't treat it?"

"I am told it is bad luck to see the... groom before the wedding. So I couldn't get you to treat it."

"Nope, not happening. This ring isn't going to fit."

"I can see that now, thank you."

They stood up there at the alter whispering in hushed tones, awkwardly fiddling with the damned thing as if they weren't at a wedding with everybody staring at them. "No, I give up. Let's just pretend it's on properly."

"Agreed."

Lestrade and Mycroft exchanged glances from the opposite sides of the aisle and rolled their eyes, smiling. What more could be expected? It was _John and Sherlock_, for God's sakes!

And they wouldn't have it any other way.

* * *

"Really now, Gregory." Mycroft sighed as he and Lestrade strolled around outside the wedding reception. Lestrade had been feeling a little suffocated and demanded a walk.

"What?" Lestrade blinked innocently. "It's stuffy in there! There's too many posh people on the Holmes side of family friends." he complained.

"I really was hoping to watch Sherlock squirm, though." Mycroft groaned at the lost opportunity.

"Some other time, My." Lestrade patted his shoulder comfortingly. He was smiling and glancing at his watch every so often.

It was suspicious. "Gregory? Is something the matter?" Mycroft asked.

"Nope." Lestrade smiled as innocently as the sly fox that he was.

Just then, they heard a commotion coming from inside the building and the roar of a car starting up.

Mycroft looked at his boyfriend. "Gregory, please tell me they're not..."

Lestrade only had time to smile and shrug before a car roared past with Sherlock and John in the back seat, Sherrinford at the wheel whooping with delight.

_"Thanks, Greeeeeeeg...!"_ That was John's voice shouting with laughter as the car tore past.

Sherlock's cackles drew out into the distance.

Mycroft turned and glared at Lestrade, who was doubled up with laughter. "I take it you weren't really feeling suffocated in there."

"Oh God, I'm so sorry, My!" Lestrade wheezed. "They begged me to distract you as they escaped."

"Escaped?" Mycroft could only scowl petulantly.

"On their honeymoon." Lestrade finally straightened himself with a satisfied sigh. "Knowing you, you'd send some of your men to keep an eye on them."

"Knowing _them_, they'd need the back-up."

"It's their honeymoon, My!" Lestrade rolled his eyes, smiling. "Besides, they've got Sherrinford."

"That's what I'm worried about the most."

"It's only for a little bit, My! Let them have their fun." Mycroft shook his head and strode swiftly back into the building. "And don't even think about checking airport records to see where they're going, for once Anthea's on their side!" Lestrade called out to his back in friendly warning.

Mycroft just threw a half-annoyed, half-exasperated look over his shoulder.

Lestrade's cackle chased after his retreating back.

* * *

The grooms were gone, the party was over, the guests were leaving, and Mycroft couldn't find Gregory.

"He's probably inside." Anthea said without being asked. She seemed to simply know. Women's intuition.

Mycroft nodded and walked inside. The first thing he saw was Eva who was just leaving. They exchanged warm nods of acknowledgement as they passed by each other.

Lestrade was sitting on the edge of the front pew right up there practically at the altar with Darren on his lap. He seemed to be telling a riveting story about the time Uncle Greg found out who the bad guy was by his footprints.

Darren just sat staring at Lestrade with wide, adoring eyes, little hands locked behind the copper's neck, and cheek cushioned on his uncle's shoulder.

The light flooding through the windows cast a warm glow on the entire room and all Mycroft could think was 'Dear Lord, someone give that man a child!'

_For a moment, Mycroft let himself imagine Lestrade sitting there in the front pew down the aisle with a small girl, auburn-haired, brown-eyed, with freckles on her button nose._

_He fantasized the girl calling him 'Papa'._

"My?"

Mycroft shook himself out of his thoughts and smiled as he made his way down the aisle alone, approaching Lestrade. "Gregory, I was looking for you."

Lestrade began bouncing Darren on his knee, much to the boy's delight. "You needed me for something?"

Mycroft shook his head. "No, not really. I was just wondering where you were."

Just then, Paul walked in and Darren immediately slid off Lestrade's lap and ran to his father. Paul and Darren said their goodbyes as they needed to start the journey home.

And then Lestrade and Mycroft were alone. Mycroft moved to the pew across the aisle from Lestrade and also sat down.

They were silent for a long while.

"My?" Lestrade called softly, staring up at the altar. Mycroft looked at him. "Do you think it'll ever be us up there, someday?" Lestrade asked, nodding his head to the front of the room.

_There was a phantom whiff of freshly toasted bread, tea, and the sound of little pattering feet and tittering laughter. Lestrade stood at the stove cooking scrambled eggs as a child - no, two - ran around him in an energetic game of indoor tag._

_"Careful, love!" Mycroft would call to both as he set the table. "Papa's cooking."_

_Two pairs of eyes, one brown, the other grey, stared at him. "Okay, Daddy." And then they'd be off, chasing each other into the sitting room._

_After breakfast, Lestrade would gather the family at the front door just as he was leaving for work. "Come on, you little rascals! Give Papa a good luck kiss!" And they would. Clumsy, wet kisses on his cheeks, but they would._

_And then Lestrade would look at him, smiling as their youngest latched on his leg and refused to let him go to work. "Come on, My. Kiss for good luck...?"_

Mycroft smiled softly at the image. "One day, Gregory. I would like that."

Lestrade smiled back at him. Then he stood up. "Well, we should be going soon, don't you think?" And he began walking away.

Mycroft stood to follow him, but patted the old wooden altar thoughtfully.

"One day." he murmured under his breath so that Lestrade would not hear him. "One day."

But, they'd take it one step at a time. Mycroft trotted a little to catch up with Lestrade and pulled him to a halt at the top of the steps in front of the chapel.

"Gregory, I was planning on asking after all the commotion of Sherlock and John's wedding had died down, but..." Mycroft faltered a little. "Would you move in with me? I mean, you practically already live there."

Lestrade grinned and gave him a little peck on the lips. "Make you the _third_ happiest man alive?" he teased.

Mycroft huffed out a laugh and pulled him in for another kiss.

"No, Gregory. The happiest."

THE END

* * *

A/N: OH. MY. GOD. It's really, seriously, unequivocally, irrevocably, and FINALLY over! A hundred chapters and it's done! I've never written anything so _long_ in my life! So, Lestrade and Mycroft didn't _actually_ get married in the end, but they will one day, right? Don't kill me!

I have so many bits and snippets of scenes and conversations in some other document that I never got a chance to use, too bad! I'll probably just use them in other oneshots, or something. But, just in case I don't, you wanna take a peek?

And yes, this is a shameless ploy to get more reviews. I'm sneaky like that. :P

Anyway! Hope you all enjoyed, and thanks for bearing with me for so long! The End!

-Darkfangz13


	101. Snippets

Snippets

A/N: So anyway, here I am slightly bewildered at how a story that was meant to stop at 30~50 chapters turned into 100 chapters (Yes, that did, in fact, happen. I am amazed because, 100 chapters...!) and I think it's thanks to waking up everyday, logging into my e-mail account, and seeing so much positive feedback on this story. So, thank you, everybody who read/reviewed/favorited/followed this story and thank you for your encouragement and support! Just thought I'd get that out of my system.

Anyway! Here are a few random scenes that I failed to use in the series - and maybe I will use them in the future - but in the event that I don't, here they are for your enjoyment. And if you read something that you really hope I write a separate oneshot about, don't be shy about asking me to because I'm a horrible pushover like that.

So, read and enjoy!

-Darkfangz13

* * *

38. Sarcastic - "What can I say?" Lestrade drawled, sarcasm dripping from his every word. "Mycroft's umbrella was unleashed upon the world."

"Oh, God help us all." John snarked back. The Holmeses rolled their eyes.

* * *

"Can anything stop Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson wondered rhetorically.

"A hurricane, perhaps." Lestrade remarked forlornly. "Or a zombie apocalypse, I don't know. That was one theory I haven't tried yet, Mycroft wouldn't let me." Mrs. Hudson smiled and patted Lestrade's arm encouragingly.

* * *

46 Craving - He had been waiting, longing, _craving_ - even - for this moment and he jerked open the car door as he pulled up beside Lestrade on the street outside of a bustling crime scene.

"Inspector, if you will please accompany me on a short drive?" he said politely, resisting the urge, for propriety's sake, to rip the man's clothes off right then and there. Yes. In public. _Him_. Mycroft Holmes. How the mighty have fallen.

Lestrade must not have missed the perfectly predatory look he was being sent because he shifted a little nervously. "Am I going to end up dead if I say 'yes'?" he asked, perfectly serious.

Mycroft gave a wincing smile. "Unlikely, Inspector." Then he lowered his voice so only Lestrade could hear him. "But if you are not spread out, _naked_, on my bed in ten minutes? _Not_ so unlikely." Lestrade's eyes widened and he quickly complied.

_- Set after a story arc that had Mycroft deal with being stationed in a different country for a few months without contact with Lestrade for security reasons, ect..._

* * *

59 Explosive - Sherlock and Sherrinford got on like a house on fire, spreading terror into the hearts of innocent bystanders, causing public outrage, and ultimately being a huge pain in the arse for the police. Figures.

_- Set soon after the events of 'Affable' where the Baker Street Boys get to know Sherrinford a little more. I was going to write more about Sherrinford, but decided not to in order to keep the ' charming and mysterious' part of Sherrinford intact. And Sherrinford knows better than to tell a Holmes anything that he does not already know._

* * *

73 Monotonous - "I hate signing things in triplicate." Lestrade admitted morosely. "At the end of the day, I won't even be able to hear my own name without retching."

"Don't be ridiculous, _Gregory_." Mycroft purred sensually in response to his lover's declaration.

Silence.

"Alright," Lestrade conceded stiffly, "I can't hate when you say it."

"I always knew you were a reasonable creature." Mycroft smirked smugly. "Now get your lovely arse over here. I want to say your name some more."

_- Lestrade after a trying day with paperwork - his closest friend, and worst enemy. It's an on-and-off affair. I never know what to think of the Lestrade - paperwork dynamic as, best enemies? Soothing sources of frustration? Comforting catastrophies? Go-Away-Mycroft-I'm-Not-Doing-Sherlock's-Paperwork?_

* * *

"Ah, I don't think we've been introduced-...?" the man stammered, turning to Lestrade who was, by that time, thoroughly exasperated at the sheer number of times he had had to repeat his name.

"You know what? I think you're right." He smiled widely, all teeth and no warmth, as he shook his hand. "Nice to meet you." And he walked straight past him, ignoring the other detective's admiring smirk and the raised hand stifling a chuckle.

_- Set during the 'Sherrinford' story arc. The 'other detective' refers to Agent Barnhart, who at that time still had no name, was not yet an Interpol agent, and was just referred to as the 'other detective'._

* * *

"Wow, this is... embarrassing." Lestrade said flatly. "Right up there with that one time that I got one Hell of a surprise, wrecked a crime scene, fell face-first into a victim's corpse, while stumbling out of my coveralls."

Silence.

"Well don't stop there!" Sherrinford wailed. "Now you have to tell us the whole story."

Lestrade just smirked and walked out of the room.

"You can't just leave now, you bloody tease!" Sherrinford called after him. "Lestrade? Greg? Gregory?" But Lestrade was gone.

_- I don't really have an idea of where this little snippet comes into play, but I just thought up the scene and thought it was fun._

* * *

"I'm a DI." Lestrade said flatly. "In _London_. Where the city was crazy even before the invention of Sherlock Holmes." Then, turning on his heel, the Inspector stalked out.

Raffles snapped his fingers with a fake grimace, looking secretly delighted. "Oooh, _burn_!"

Sherlock just scowled at him.

_- Set during the chapter 'Inspired' where Sherrinford poses as a police officer. I had originally thought of Sherrinford meeting Sherlock briefly as 'police sergeant J. Raffles' before meeting him officially as 'Sherrinford', but cut the scene out because it made the story more complicated than it was worth._

* * *

"Forgive me if I'm wrong..." John said, a look of profound thoughtfulness on his face. "...but I remember that you had a gun out at Dartmoor."

Lestrade coughed and looked anywhere but at John.

"And you-... you aren't..." John was looking more and more uncomfortable with the implications of the direction he was leading himself. "You aren't, like, secretly moonlighting as one of Mycroft's part-time assassins, or anything... are you?"

"No need." Lestrade said, bouncing uncomfortably on the balls of his feet. "He's got full-time ones." A long pause. Lestrade grimaced. "Alright, maybe I shouldn't have told you that."

"How much _do_ you know about Mycroft's work, exactly?" John asked the question everybody else was wondering.

_- I really don't know about this one... sorry. But the matter had to be addressed sometime!_

* * *

"No." Lestrade said flatly. "Mycroft, I simply cannot allow you to take over the world."

"It's the Internet." Mycroft replied blankly. "Not world domination."

"Is there a difference?" Lestrade scoffed. "I've seen Maisie go to the dark side of being on the Internet. Some site called 'Tumblr'. Anyway, it's not pretty. She tells these horror stories about people who go in never come back out in one piece. It's not a problem the police can handle."

Mycroft just snorted and continued clicking away on his computer.

"I'm serious." Lestrade continued grimly. "They never recover." Mycroft just looked at him disdainfully. "Why don't you hack into another al-Qaeda online magazine and send them more cupcake recipes? Chocolate cake? Sodding _Rainbow_ cake? For _God's sake_, Mycroft, just leave the Internet alone!"

_- Tumblr... because of __**reasons**__... and because it's my muse. I visit Tumblr when I need inspiration... only I never get around to actually __**writing**__ on the day I visit. *sigh* And in reference to Mycroft hacking into an al-Qaeda site and sending them cupcake recipes, it really did happen. __**In real life.**_

_Google 'Operation Cupcake MI6'._

_Mycroft Holmes was here. And he loves cupcakes. Terrorists, beware the __**Cupcake of**__**Dooooom! **__Capitalization entirely necessary._

_If you didn't know about it before, you're welcome. Consider yourself suitably educated. Carry on._

* * *

Mycroft glanced at his phone and sighed, standing.

"Trouble?" Lestrade asked him.

"Sometimes God isn't enough to save the Queen." Mycroft replied with a troubled look.

Lestrade looked thoughtful for a moment. "With all the times people say 'God save the Queen' you'd think she has worse troubles with Murphy's Law than I do." he remarked.

Mycroft smiled and pecked his lover's cheek. "Nobody has worse luck than you do."

"Exactly why you should stay to save _me_." Lestrade shot back with an impish grin.

Mycroft threaded his fingers in Lestrade's short hair and hugged the man's head to his stomach. "Don't tempt me, you sly fox."

_- I just wanted to use something along the lines of 'If God can't save the Queen, Mycroft surely will.' for something, don't mind me. And this was set during one of those 'I love you Gregory, but I must cut our date short because I need to go save the world' crisises. Mycroft will never not feel guilty about it, but Lestrade will never blame him for it._

_Because sometimes Lestrade is the one to run out on Mycroft because he has priorities too._

* * *

"Just, um..." Sherrinford faltered. "Find us some coffee, will you? Be a dear."

Lestrade looked from Sherrinford to Mitch, and back with a look that made it known that Sherrinford wasn't fooling anyone. "Okay then." He said slowly before turning and loping off.

"Wait, I didn't tell him where to find coffee." Mitch fretted, obviously remembering the moment Lestrade had left them. He looked as if contemplating following Lestrade to give him directions.

Sherrinford slung his arm over Mitch's shoulders. "Don't you worry about him." he said. "One foolproof way you can pick out a good copper is by his nose for decent caffeine."

"What is he, a dog?" Mitch scoffed.

"Cop humor." Sherrinford shrugged back.

"I'll betcha he'll be a hit with the IT division, they guzzle caffeine like gas." Mitch grimaced.

_- Set in a story arc, that I only wrote half of before scrapping, about Lestrade getting kidnapped by some mercenaries and smuggled into the United States in order to get to Mycroft. And while Mycroft, Sherlock, and John distracted the mercenaries in the UK, they have Sherrinford sneak around behind the scenes and save Lestrade._

_This is after the ruckus dies down and Lestrade is just waiting in the US for Mycroft or somebody to take him back to the UK. Mitch is a CIA agent and secretly a friend of Sherrinford. He was Sherrinford's back-up as the Holmes swooped in to save Lestrade._

_The reason Sherrinford wanted Lestrade out of earshot in this scene was because he was explaining to Mitch exactly __**who**__ Gregory Lestrade was to Mycroft Holmes and why it was such a security breach that the copper was kidnapped. This implies that Lestrade is much more to the British Government than just a copper and Mycroft Holmes's boyfriend, something that Mycroft and Sherrinford keep secret from Lestrade, Sherlock, and John._

_Also, Lestrade actually does have a rather high-level clearance that he does not know about, which would explain why he knows certain classified details about Mycroft's work._

_And the leader of the mercenaries, Mister Archer, is a boyishly charming villain who loves yogurt. Yep. Yogurt. I wrote a little of him and it was fun. In the end, Sherrinford saves Lestrade, beats Archer, but ultimately takes him in as one of his own criminal agents because he rules the criminal world like Mycroft rules the civilian world and he thinks Archer has potential._

_Sebastian Moran makes a cameo as one of Sherrinford's men, revealing that he had indeed escaped from jail when he bored of it. He was one of the men who helped save Lestrade from his captors. He also implies that although he was Moriarty's right-hand-man, he is ultimately a mercenary at heart and only did the things he did because Moriarty paid him well. And he does not hate any of the Sherlock cast for pushing Moriarty to his death. He also has a gruffly polite/secretly-good-guy-deep-down, moment where he - very awkwardly - apologizes to Lestrade for all the trouble he helped cause._

_And, when Mycroft anonymously receives information in text about Lestrade's whereabouts in the United States from an unidentified information source ID'd as '-IA', when he inquires as to what '-IA' stands for, the informant replies '__**Intentionally Abeyant. -IA**__', which implies that the informant is Irene Adler and that she will not stay in hiding forever._

_There is alot of torture, psychological warfare, and all over whump for everybody involved and Mycroft makes it very clear to Mister Archer that while Lestrade is very important to him, he cannot and will not betray Queen and Country even at risk of losing Gregory. Archer immediately tells Lestrade about it in an attempt to turn Lestrade against Mycroft, and is surprised when Lestrade just laughs, half bitterly, half fond, and tells him '__**I already knew that'**__._

_He also remarks that '__**While Mycroft might not be able to boast of succeeding in saving me every time... I have it on good authority that he can boast that he always tries.**__' And when Archer incredulously asks why he tempts such horrible odds, Lestrade just shrugs and tells him simply, '__**Because he's worth it**__'._

* * *

Mycroft stared coldly into the live video stream. _"Now please, Mister Archer,"_ he intoned "_return Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade... before I charge you with the theft of government property."_

"Oi!" Lestrade groaned back irately. "I changed my mind, I'm running away with Archer."

"You'd only get so far." Sherrinford remarked sympathetically.

"See, Mister Holmes, you've gone and hurt Inspector Lestrade's feelings!" Archer sighed, shaking his head sadly. "This is why people like you can never have nice things."

Mycroft sucked in a silent breath and restrained from hissing, 'Gregory. Mine. Gimme. _Now.' _Sometimes, he couldn't believe what sort of people he was surrounded by.

_- Set in the climax of Lestrade's kidnapped arc because I really, really wanted to use that '__**before I charge you with the theft of Government property**__' line. I missed out. Boo._

_And then Archer butts in to defend Lestrade's mock hurt feelings and they turn out to be civil friends. Mycroft just rolls his eyes and sighs in exasperation because __**of course**__ Lestrade would become friends with his kidnapper._

_Sherrinford just thinks it's all hilarious._

* * *

Mycroft walked in to find Lestrade sitting sprawled at the bottom of the staircase.

Crying. Mycroft had seen evidence of tears on Lestrade before, but he had never actually see the man in the act of crying before in his life. He was a little in shock.

A moment or two passed before Lestrade noticed him and wiped his face ruefully with the back of his hand.

"...Stairs." He said, voice rough and gravelly from exhaustion, strain, and frustration. "Goddamn-..."

"Gregory, what happened?" Mycroft asked him levelly. "Who should I kill?"

Lestrade choked out a laugh. "Stairs, Mycroft." he reminded. "Appeared out of nowhere at the least opportune moment."

Mycroft stared at Lestrade for a moment, turned, and narrowed his eyes at the top of the staircase where he presumed Lestrade had placed a personal goal. "Stairs. Right."

When he looked at those stairs, he saw a simple staircase, one step leading up to another in order to attain new heights. But he knew that at that moment, when Lestrade looked at those stairs, he saw an insurmountable mountain of enormous proportions.

Mycroft sighed and shook his head before gripping Lestrade's shoulder firmly and helping him to his feet. "Let's get you some rest, shall we?" he murmured softly.

Lestrade just whined and grumbled incoherently under his breath, asleep on his feet, head lolling into the crook of Mycroft's neck.

Mycroft just snorted fondly and somehow managed to maneuver him carefully up the stairs and into his flat.

Within minutes of breaking into Lestrade's flat (after deciding not to unintentionally molest Gregory looking for his house keys) Mycroft had Lestrade in bed and under the safety of his covers. Mycroft felt a little guilty, watching Lestrade curl up into himself, tracks left from tears still visible... vulnerable. A complete opposite of the stubbornly brave and resilient DI Lestrade who stood toe-to-toe with the scum of the earth and stared it down without a blink.

But now, in the safety and privacy of his home, Lestrade had no need to think and act like the man in charge of a crisis, the fearless leader, the servant of the Law.

He was just Gregory Lestrade. Just a man who was tired and scared and had little fight left in him.

Mycroft brushed his hand over Lestrade's cheek and reluctantly moved away.

"Mycroft." Lestrade whimpered from under his covers. "_Mycroft..._" Whispered like a prayer.

Mycroft turned and sat on the bed by Lestrade's side, gently rubbing soothing circles on his back like he used to do to comfort Sherlock when he was young and got into fights at school. "Very well, Gregory." he relented, understanding his lover's unvocalized plea and pressing a chaste kiss onto Lestrade's forehead. "I'm not going anywhere."

Mycroft had no idea how long he sat there, rubbing Lestrade's back. But when he next realized, he had somehow fallen asleep beside Lestrade and the sun was bleeding beautifully through the halfway closed curtains.

The sun was beginning to shine again, after a long, harrowing storm.

_- Set after a truly terrifying case for Lestrade which involves the backstory of his past with DCI Meadows, a former police officer with a grudge, Donovan nearly being shot outside her home, and violent threats against Lestrade's Godson - Darren._

_Lestrade, exhausted after the few-days-long case (during which Lestrade never went home and slept properly) is wrapped up, stumbles back to his flat at four in the morning, stops short at the stairs leading up to his home, is overwhelmed by everything that had happened, and just breaks down and cries from exhaustion, frustration, and relief. Mycroft walks in after Anthea informs him of Lestrade's plight and comforts him._

_And fluff is had by all._

* * *

"No." Mycroft said flatly.

"Please?" Sherrinford pouted, eyes wide and liquid in a perfect puppy-dog expression.

Mycroft cringed at his elder brother. "Have a little shame, will you?"

"But, Mycroft!" Sherrinford whined.

"I said no, and I mean no!"

Lestrade walked in just at that moment. "What's going on?"

Sherrinford pounced on Lestrade, flinging his arm around Lestrade's shoulders and plastering himself to the copper's side before Mycroft could stop him. "Reason with him, will you, Darling? He's being horrible to me!"

"Not 'Darling', and why's Mycroft mistreating you?" Lestrade sighed, motionless like a coat rack, surrendering himself to Sherrinford's onslaught of physical affection. Already too used to it by now.

"Well, there's this _stunning_ diamond-..."

Lestrade promptly clapped his hands over his ears. "Lalala, I'm a copper, and I can't hear you!" he exclaimed loudly over Sherrinford's scheming.

"I just need this one thing." Sherrinford promised. "After that, no more stealing in the UK."

Lestrade and Mycroft exchanged glances with the weight of a full eyebrow conversation.

"It's the lesser of two evils..." Lestrade groaned.

Sherrinford squeezed Lestrade in a tight hug and made this pleased squealing noise in the back of his throat which Mycroft flinched at because no man with any self worth should make such a high-pitch noise like that, especially not a Holmes.

"You should be glad I like you." Lestrade told him.

"Face it, you love me, boyfriend." Sherrinford finally pried himself off Lestrade and sauntered away in search of better prey.

"'Boyfriend'?" Mycroft asked, eyebrow raised.

"You're his brother, don't ask me." Lestrade defended himself.

"Gregory, you should know better than to think I'd actually let him plan a heist in the UK." Mycroft sighed.

"One big theft versus many big thefts." Lestrade shrugged. "Besides, I only said I'd turn a blind eye to the theft, I never said I'd let him keep what he stole." he said innocently.

"Oh... I like how you think."

_- In the chapter 'Happy', Lestrade remarks to John that Mycroft convinced Sherrinford to 'stop his criminal endeavors in the UK', this is set right before the theft in question. Sum it to say that Sherrinford made it out with the goods, Mycroft stole it back, and Lestrade turned it back over to the right authorities. Sherrinford will forever maintain that the two cheated, but he never did pull off another high-risk heist in the UK, just a few whimsical pick-pockets every once in a while. Because Sherrinford is addicted to crime like Sherlock is to solving mysteries, it's a horrible itch._

* * *

"Shit, they're going to spot us." Raffles grunted under his breath as he averted his head.

And suddenly, he was pushing Lestrade up against the wall of a dark alley, shoulders, hips, and knees knocking against each other clumsily. It didn't even take Lestrade second to realize what the thief had in mind.

He clapped his hand over Raffles's mouth with a narrow-eyed look. "If you snog me, I swear to God..." Then, he shoved Raffles off him and pushed himself away from the wall. "The upside to being a cop..." he said, smoothing out his work suit. "... is that you don't have to hide when people think you're following them."

Then he turned and walked boldly up to their suspect, credentials already pulled out. "Excuse me, I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade, may I speak to you for a moment?"

Raffles rolled his eyes beside him. "Showoff."

_- And more of the 'Illustrious Adventures of Detective Lestrade and Raffles'. Set between Lestrade telling him he has a boyfriend, and Mycroft telling him exactly __**who**__ his boyfriend is._

* * *

"If you don't get that infuriating smirk off your mouth right this moment, I'll wipe it off." Lestrade seethed.

"Hey, you love my mouth." Sherrinford said, still smirking.

"I like it best when it's shut." Lestrade sassed back.

Mycroft was just a little bit proud of Sherrinford's affronted expression.

_- Well, since we're on the topic of Sherrinford..._

* * *

"Hey, Mycroft, um..." Mycroft looked up to where his boyfriend stood idling nervously in the sitting room doorway.

"Yes, Gregory?" Mycroft put his book down.

Lestrade had to take a moment to snort at the title - '1984'. He pulled out a thin package wrapped in brown paper from behind his back. "I - uh - got this for you." He awkwardly held out the gift.

Mycroft took it slowly. "Is this for some special occasion, Gregory?" he asked curiously.

"Well, there is the matter of you saving me a few weeks ago on that one case." Lestrade grimaced. Mycroft saving Lestrade's life had resulted in the catastrophic event of his precious umbrella snapping in half. Which was astounding as the umbrella was strong as fuck. "I know you have a whole stash of umbrellas to use, but I kind of wanted to make it up to you."

Mycroft pulled apart the brown paper wrapping.

It was an umbrella, funeral black, with deep navy trimmings, and a mahogany handle. There was a blade hidden in the umbrella and Mycroft ran the pad of his thumb along the sharp edge with a pleased smile when his light pressure drew blood. The psycho.

There was only one place on earth that made umbrellas of this quality. Mycroft knew. He shopped there frequently.

There must've been a slight look of pleasant surprise on his face because Lestrade coughed. "I'm a detective, too, Mycroft."

Mycroft smiled, re-sheathing the blade. "Of that, I have never doubted." He rubbed his thumb lovingly over a personalized 'M' carved into the handle.

"You like it?" Lestrade blustered.

"'Like it'?" Mycroft echoed, leaning the umbrella carefully against his armchair and standing to kiss Lestrade.

"I_ love_ it."

_- And Mycroft never lets that umbrella leave his side now._

* * *

The End!


End file.
